Georgiana's Voice
by JacquiT
Summary: The events of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice told from the perspective of Georgiana Darcy.
1. Chapter 1

Mr. Julius Pritchard is not the most well-known music master in the city of London, but every Tuesday, in a large and presumptuous townhouse in Portnam Square in London, he is hailed as the best. A servant of the Darcy family for twelve years, he knows the styles and preferences of his pupil well, and when he brings new pieces to be learned it is always with the confidence that she will accept the challenge and, eventually, play it as it was meant to be played.

The girl is tall – quite too tall for her age – thin, and with sadly arranged brown hair. The room holds her one friend in the form of a well-used pianoforte, which she hammers at relentlessly. Poorly too, for she is not paying attention to the music sheets. That girl is me – I am Georgiana Catherine Abigail Darcy.

I am waiting for Mr. Pritchard to arrive to deliver my lesson. This has always been the best part of my week, and I am especially eager to see him as I have not had a proper lesson in more than three months. I no longer truly need his instruction – I am possessed of a natural talent and love of music which has always been nurtured in me – but he and I have similar tastes in music, and it is good to have familiar conversation.

Mr. Pritchard has been my master since I first sat down at the keys. I was only four years old then, and living with my father and brother. I barely remember those days, but with clarity I can recall the first time ever I played a piece right – some nursery song or other – and my brother Fitzwilliam was there. He clapped for me and told me how well I had played. I adore the man and when I was a child I wanted to marry him. He was grown in my eyes – he was sixteen years old, and since he had chosen Mr. Pritchard for me, and I liked my new music master so well, I was especially eager to learn my lessons to please them both.

When Mr. Pritchard comes I greet him fondly; he gives me one of those smiles that make me wish he were my grandfather. "Miss Darcy," he says, fluttering papers about, "I am quite gratified that you are returned from Ramsgate. I trust your stay there was all you hoped?"

I smile sadly and take his hand. "It was not, in fact," I reply. "But let us not talk of it. What have you brought me?"

"If you are in a somber mood, Miss Darcy, perhaps the selection I have brought today is more appropriate than I knew." He smiles and flutters some music sheets in front of me. "Now, come and play. You will enjoy the piece, I hope. But first, warm your fingers and play me something merry."

I sit next to him, and I play a piece which I have known for many years, which I know he likes. It is Mozart, and I know he will be pleased. When I am done he claps and praises, and I smile, for I know his sentiments are truly felt. How much easier would things be, if only everyone could be as open and honest as Mr. Pritchard?

He bids me to play my new piece. I read the notes, one by one, and then I play the whole piece through, hearing the tick of the pendulum, the deep timbre of the notes, the slow progression of the piece, but not the music. Mr. Pritchard tells me to play it again. He has moved to the chaise to sit back and listen. "Truly you are paid for nothing," I tease him.

"Play your lesson, Miss Darcy," he says, and tries to sound stern. I smirk and turn back to the instrument. "And listen when you play – oh, you will like this piece."

I play. The music is haunting – it is low and deliberate and each note rumbles in my stomach. I am carried away by the melody, melancholy rushing over and through me. Suddenly I am no longer in the music room, but away again – back in Ramsgate, where the ocean pounds the rocks and the air smells warm and salty. I can feel his gentle hand upon my chin and his firm lips on mine; I can hear the tender words whispered in my ear. Silent tears roll down my cheeks.

I ought to be paying attention to the music sheets, but I cannot think and stumble several times. I cannot control the bent of my thoughts; they always turn toward him. I know he does not love me. In my head I do. In my heart, though, I hope even still, for though I now understand that he never loved me as he professed to so passionately, I love him still. Oh . . . my heart aches for him.

The piece is over. Without looking up I ask who has written it. I don't hear the answer. Mr. Pritchard kisses my cheek gently and leaves the house in Portnam Square.

* * *

I remember with clarity the day my father died. I was not yet twelve years old, and on that morning I had risen with the determination to go outside and walk, as I had not been allowed to for several days. Fitzwilliam came to my chamber before I was quite ready and I recall being angry with him for that. I could never forget the words he said – "Georgiana, Papa died in the night. . . ." – words delivered in such a low, soft, and sorrowful voice as I had never before heard. My heart broke.

I simply cried for an hour straight. My brother, you see, does not lie and does not exaggerate, so any information he delivers, no matter how shocking, must be taken at face value. There was no need to question, reason, or see for myself. My Papa was gone, and the only two Darcys left in the world were young, devastated, and quite alone.

It was then that Fitzwilliam developed that controlled façade that I hate so much. I know the very moment it first appeared – right before he delivered the news to me. For a while, I really believed him as indifferent on the inside as he appeared on the outside. Then I learned to read his eyes – windows to the soul, Mrs. Reynolds once told me. It could not be more true in the case of my brother. His face could be absolutely blank and yet if one were intuitive enough, one could read Fitzwilliam's eyes.

He almost always wears that infernal mask, the only exception being when it is only he and I together. I have learned to know when he is teasing me, when he is frustrated, when he is tired, and when he is pleased. But very occasionally, I can get him to take it off – I can get him to open up and talk with me. These times, I feel, are the only moments I truly spend with my brother. They are always very brief, but I cherish them with all my heart.

Tonight is one of those nights. The mask is definitely off, likely because he wishes to cheer me. He is just returned from Pemberley and tomorrow he promises a visit from someone whom he says that I should like very much.

"Mrs. Priscilla Annesley is the widow, if you recall, of the late rector of Hunsford Parsonage. Our aunt disliked her greatly, so I am certain we shall find her a sensible woman. I have applied to her to visit, and if you like her, dear girl, you shall have a new companion."

I long to observe that I do not want a companion, but a sister, or better still, to have my brother always with me, but I know that neither is very likely. "She is a young woman, as I recall," I reply, looking into my tea. Then I look up, and with the expression on his face, begging liveliness, I cannot help but oblige him a little. "Shall she try to charm you?"

He smirks. "As you well know, my dear sister, I am not easily charmed. And I do not think the widow of a clergyman would be quite suitable," he says. My face falls, but my brother does not know why, and he asks.

"Who would be suitable?" I ask him. "Who is good enough for you?"

He looks away, uncomfortable. "Our aunt thinks Anne is good enough," he says with a smirk.

"There is no one good enough for you, Fitzwilliam," I say, shaking my head and looking away. "What woman exists, among those who _would_ be suitable, who does not fawn over you without having been acquainted with you beyond your fortune? And what man exists who will not hunt me for mine?"

He takes my chin in his hand. "These are questions too heavy for a girl your age," he says, sadness descending into his eyes. And then, carefully, he adds, "There are those who I trust – honorable young men, with integrity, who are artless."

Knowing exactly of whom he speaks, I look away, not wanting to talk about Mr. Charles Bingley. I know that I ought to marry and ease my brother of the burden of caring for me, and if I absolutely must, Mr. Bingley is not an altogether bad option. Fitzwilliam _wants_ Mr. Bingley to marry me; whether Mr. Bingley would have me is not likely, and I am not certain that I would welcome that fate.

I wish that I could tell my brother this. I wish he would not hint at it. It is not because I do not like Mr. Bingley – he is kind and a good friend to my brother. It is, rather, that due to my knowing him most of my life, I do not think I could look upon him as anything but a brotherly figure. I am fortunate in that I am still full young for marriage, despite what I may have thought some months ago. It will be another year at least before I am even out.

I dodge Fitzwilliam's comment. "And what about for you?" I ask.

"Do not worry for me," he replies. "A gentleman may stay unmarried far longer than a lady and still be considered eligible. I shall find someone, I am sure."

I take a disinterested sip of my tea and decide a change of subject is in order. "Has Lady Catherine found a suitable replacement for Mr. Annesley?" I ask, referring to the late rector of the parsonage connected with our aunt's estate.

"I believe Hunsford parsonage is again occupied, at last," he replies, smiling. "Though I must admit I am not looking forward to meeting the man. His noble patroness _herself_ has described him to me as a bit of a sycophant."

"That cannot be a good sign," I agree as my head fills with the image of a tall, rail-thin, elderly gentleman scraping his elbows whilst he follows after my aunt, which is just the sort of person Lady Catherine likes to have about.

"I shall meet him soon," continues my brother, reminding me of his unfortunate, but annual, invitation from Lady Catherine to spend Easter time visiting Rosings Park.

"Yes," I say, grateful that I do not have to go along with him. "Please be sure to send me a full report."

"I am sure he cannot be so bad," says my brother. "You might ask Mrs. Annesley about him; she must have shown him the parsonage and introduced him to the servants."

"I beg you would forgive me if I should happen to forget," I say in reply. "But when you meet him, you must be sure to tell him how curious I am about him, and invite him to write me." My brother grins – a handsome sight. "I wish you would smile more often, Fitzwilliam."

For a moment he looks as if he wants to say something more. He does not. The mask goes up and he returns to his tea.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	2. Chapter 2

When Mrs. Annesley arrives the next day, I am summoned to the sitting room. I can hear a light, young voice mingling with my brother's as I approach; I stop to listen.

". . . she tends to be very shy," he is saying. This is not untrue, however much I wish it weren't pointed out. "She did have a very troublesome summer at Ramsgate, which has caused her to withdraw, but I hope you will be able to help cure her of that."

I do not want her to hear the complete tale of my disgraceful summer, so quickly I pop my head round the corner to announce my presence.

I am a little astonished by what I see – Fitzwilliam is sitting rather closer to Mrs. Annesley than I would have imagined, and more surprising than anything, there is no mask. I smile at this, forgetting totally about Ramsgate or Mrs. Annesley's worth – for, I reason, if my brother can converse so openly with her, surely she can have nothing lacking. She smiles at me with lovely dark blonde curls framing her face.

My brother makes the introduction and we sit back down to tea. During the course of the conversation I say very little, but my brother and Mrs. Annesley talk openly about a number of subjects, mostly relating to my studies and my family. Familiar with my aunt, she enquires after the most senior member of the Fitzwilliam family, my uncle the Earl, mostly curious about whether I am required to visit.

"It is likely that they will not issue Georgiana any invitations until she is of age," my brother informs her.

"Have you lately visited them, Miss Darcy?" asks Mrs. Annesley.

She directs the question at me particularly, with a quizzical look upon her kindly face. Fitzwilliam is looking at me the same way.

"I . . . have not, no," I stutter, looking earnestly at the forget-me-nots on my teacup. I glance upward, fully expecting them to fall into conversation between them again. They do not. They are looking at me – kindly, but _looking_. I must say something. "But my brother shall be visiting my aunt. He goes to Rosings each year . . . at about the same time of year."

"And will you take your sister, Mr. Darcy?" asks Mrs. Annesley, tilting her head toward him.

"I will visit my aunt with my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. We are always invited the week of Easter, for about three weeks."

There is again a pause in the conversation. Feeling myself a little content, I find something to say. "I understand you have met the new rector at Hunsford," I venture, looking up, but only a little.

Mrs. Annesley smiles. "Yes, indeed I have. He is a peculiar creature to be sure, but he suits Lady Catherine quite well. He is not yet married, but I am sure that will be rectified quickly, with your aunt's assistance."

My brother smiles. "She does love to be useful." He takes a final sip of his tea and then sets the cup back down, addressing Mrs. Annesley again. "I am afraid I have some time scheduled with my solicitor, to discuss some business which I have been putting off longer than he would like. Georgiana, would you be so kind as to give Mrs. Annesley a tour of the house?"

I smile back at him. "I would be delighted," I reply, and stand to do it. Mrs. Annesley and Fitzwilliam exchange their parting pleasantries and we begin the tour with the room I am most intimate with – the music room. By the time we are through, nearly an hour has passed and I am feeling quite comfortable with her. She leaves soon after.

Fitzwilliam and I dine together quietly, as we always do. He asks me a few questions about Mrs. Annesley and between us it is determined that she is quite a suitable companion for me. He is only left to investigate her references. I wonder if this is necessary, as Lady Catherine has particularly recommended her and that lady would rather perish than be wrong, but I hold my tongue. My brother does not like to be questioned, and it will give him peace.

Within a few weeks Mrs. Annesley and I have fallen into a nice routine. I practice every morning, and on Tuesdays Mr. Pritchard comes to instruct me; after he has gone, Mrs. Annesley tutors me. She has introduced some new subjects, so there is something to learn each day. She thinks my French is good, but it is not; she unrelentingly spends the first full hour of our lessons speaking nothing but French, no matter if we are studying history or geography. For five or six hours we study, and in between we part for dinner. She is serious about the lessons, which while sometimes vexing, is a grand departure from Mrs. Younge's style. _Her_ French is worse than _mine._

One morning, about a month into Mrs. Annesley's employment, I wake to find that the maid which has been assigned to me since I returned from Ramsgate is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Greta, one of the upper maids, is waiting for me. I have seen her a handful of times but have never heard her speak. Dressed in my nightgown and a robe, I greet her.

"Good morning, Greta."

She smiles nervously and inclines her head, but says nothing.

"Can you tell me where my maid Clara is this morning?"

She smiles and nods again, but still says nothing.

"Did Mrs. Edstrom send you?" I ask, referring to the housekeeper.

Once more the smile and nod, but no words. She holds out some towels and a cake of soap.

She does _not _speak, apparently. I tilt my head and crease my brow and gesture to the dressing room where I bathe.

"Is my bath ready?"

She lifts the towels and soap in the air slightly; she must understand the word "bath."

I smile, a little amused by the game. I pass her gently and walk into my dressing chamber. My bath is indeed ready, but it does not explain the mystery of my missing maid.

The quietest bath I have ever had commences and afterwards, Greta fights with my hair. It is incredible, unruly stuff – stick straight, thin, and mousy brown. No one has ever been able to really arrange it well, except one of my cousin Anne's maids, but she was as prickly as Anne herself. This morning, it is only pulled into a tight but simple bun and there is little left to frame my face. When she is finished I go down to join my brother at breakfast.

He seems a little agitated this morning, and begins immediately. "I cannot stay long with you, as I have to meet with my solicitor and Mr. Albertson, who has come to town this morning," he says. "However, you will be quite busy with Mrs. Annesley, selecting a new maid. Clara has left us this morning."

"I noticed that," I say under my breath. "Did she tell no one why she left?"

"Her mother fell ill a day or so ago," he explains. "She left to tend her and does not expect to return."

"I see." I am disappointed, for I liked Clara and would have liked to hear her reasons for leaving from her own mouth. "I hope all is well at Pemberley," I offer to my brother. Mr. Albertson – a stick-like fellow without sons, or even a wife – is his steward, and almost never comes into London, which he hates. On the whole I have found him to be a disagreeable, particular sort of man, but his character is of little significance to me, as I hardly ever see him, and when I do, he barely dips his head in acknowledgement of my presence.

"All is well," he assures me. "I must settle some things with him before I go into Hertfordshire with Bingley in a few weeks."

I did not know that he was going away, but I am used to his being in whatever place I am not. After what transpired in Ramsgate, I wonder at this.

"He has taken a house there, which he may like to purchase. I promised that I would visit him, to help him assess it properly."

I want to scream at this and observe that Mr. Bingley is fully capable of making his own decisions, if he would just stop consulting Fitzwilliam. This, you see, is another reason I do not want to marry Mr. Bingley – what woman would want her brother to monopolize her husband's time?

My brother observes my somewhat crestfallen look and takes my hand. "I did not tell you," he says. "I am sorry, Georgiana. I have already promised Bingley . . . I did not mean to neglect you."

I turn my palm up and squeeze. "It is all right," I say. "How long will you be gone?"

"About a month," he replies. He looks worried.

"Do not fret," I say, patting his hand. "My time will be adequately occupied with Mrs. Annesley's lessons, and with Mr. Pritchard."

"And how fares Mr. Pritchard?" asks Fitzwilliam, taking a bite of his bread. "He is well, I hope."

"Yes," I reply, pausing to think on it. I have not taken any great notice of anyone since returning to London, but Mr. Pritchard has always been very special to me. "Though I confess I worry for him. His step is not quite as light as it used to be."

"It is only age," he says, and tries to make it sound comforting. "I am sure Mr. Pritchard has many more lessons to teach."

I hope silently that he is right. "Where is Mr. Albertson?"

"He is waiting for me in my study," says my brother, in no particular hurry to finish his breakfast.

"Has he eaten breakfast?" I ask, setting down my tea cup. "Should we not invite him to join us?"

"He is not a guest, Georgiana, he is my steward, and he will wait for me."

I cough a little. "Of course," I mutter into my eggs. I do not say much more during the meal, and soon enough he leaves to confer with his steward while I go in search of Mrs. Annesley.

The next afternoon I am occupied with her in the yellow drawing room, speaking with girls who might fill the position left vacant by Clara. Most are French, who speak lovely English, though there are a few English girls, and they are all quite serious and never smile. They were sent to us by Mrs. Annesley's sister, who is the proprietor of an agency.

There are ten of them. After listening to Mrs. Annesley speak to nine of them briefly, the tenth comes into the sitting room. I instantly like her. I do not know why, but I like her.

"My name is Michelle," she says in a thick French accent. She is a lovely girl, about a year older than me, I think. Her hair is curly blonde and arranged neatly, and a genuine smile is upon her face.

"I am Mrs. Annesley, and this is Miss Darcy," says my companion to introduce us. I smile and curtsey to Michelle.

"How do you do, Michelle?" I say, hopeful that she will be different from the nine other boring and identical girls that came before her.

"I am well, _merci_," she replies. She sits down and then asks, "Your maid . . . she is gone?"

"Yes," I volunteer, which is unusual for me, as I ordinarily let others who would talk, do so. "She left us a day ago."

My good companion continues by asking the same questions of Michelle that she asked of the other nine girls. Michelle likes to talk, apparently, and mixes her French and English, but they are all words that I can understand. She talks of her cousins, who are farmers and soldiers, and of her uncle who is a baker. She came to London when she was fifteen.

When she leaves, Mrs. Annesley asks me who I liked best of the ten, and I smile a little. "Oh, I liked Michelle the best," I reply, uncertain of her own opinion. "She seemed the most honest."

"That is just what I thought, too," she replies, sitting down with her needlework.

"You did?" I ask, a little surprised. "You think Michelle is the best choice?"

"Oh, I think she is the most honest," she clarifies. "But _strictly_ speaking, I think perhaps Mary is the most prudent choice. She is the most skilled of all the girls."

"Oh."

She smiles up at me for a moment. "This is a choice you must make on your own, Miss Darcy. All of the girls _are_ qualified; my sister would not have sent them to interview for a position with the Darcy family if it were not so. It is _you_ the girl must work for; _you_ who must manage her. If you liked Michelle best, then why not choose her? Have a little faith in your own judge of character, my dear."

My heart plummets into my stomach and my expression falls with it. "That is not something that I can do," I say, shaking my head.

Mrs. Annesley puts her work in her lap and gives me a curious look. "Is there something you want to talk about, Miss Darcy?"

"No," I reply loudly, rising. "No, not at all." I rush to the door and turn to look at her. "I am going to retire now. Good night."

She stops me at the door with a hand on my upper arm. "Miss Darcy, please turn around."

I do as she asks to find her looking at me with a kind expression in her eyes. "Yes?"

"It is three o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Darcy."

I look away and want to cry. "Yes," I say. "Of course. I meant . . . I just want to rest a while."

Mrs. Annesley takes my chin in her hand and turns my head so that she can look at me. "If you ever _do_ want to talk," she offers gently, "I hope you feel you can talk to me." She pauses to let the offer settle between us for a moment.

I look back at her, incredibly uncomfortable. "Thank you," I say quietly. She smiles at me and I turn toward my rooms.

* * *

The next morning, I am forced to make a choice – I cannot continue to try to instruct Silent Greta, as she clearly wishes neither to learn English, nor to be a lady's maid. Reminding myself that if Michelle will ultimately not succeed, she can be quickly replaced with no harm done, I write to Mrs. Annesley's sister to request that Michelle come to work for me.

She joins us the next day, and shopping ensues. I confess I do _love_ to shop and have a bit of an obsession with bonnets. I must have _something_ pretty to cover my awful hair, after all. I almost cannot wait to be married so that I can wear a cap to cover it all the time.

Michelle is fitted for a wardrobe suitable for a lady's maid, which she accepts with glee and much thanks. When we return from Mildred Townsend's shop one afternoon, in the hall we meet my brother, who greets me and kisses my cheek. "Shall we have tea together?" he asks me. "I will leave in the morning for Hertfordshire."

I smile. "Of course," I reply, and hand him Mrs. Townsend's bill. "For Michelle," I explain. "Oh, and one for me."

He takes the paper and glances at Michelle, who turns crimson. After looking it over, he looks up at her again. "Do not fret over this," he says to Michelle. "Georgiana, you are to be congratulated. I do not think it could be done."

"Of what do you speak?" I ask, confused.

"You now own bonnets enough to cover every head in England." He kisses my cheek again and heads to the library.

I smile after him and look at Michelle, ready to go upstairs. She smiles, a little more at ease, and follows me up the stairs to my rooms. A few moments later, the footman knocks on the door to deliver the bandbox containing the newest addition to my collection. I thank him and hand it to Michelle to be put away.

"I do not yet know where to put it," she says, a little embarrassed.

"Oh – in my dressing room. I will be right in to show you where."

I follow her after a moment and find her staring into an open closet. My bonnets are all inside – some forty-five of them – all arranged neatly in order of season, and then type, and then color, from the darkest blue to the brightest yellow. Looking over her shoulder, I spot my favorite one – it is light pink with little roses made of ribbons and the loveliest ivory lace trimming it.

"You can put it next to this one," I say, tapping the shelf.

Michelle turns to me with an awe-stricken face. She shakes her head. "_Mon __dieu_!" she exclaims. It is all she can muster . . . there are _quite_ a few bonnets, I suppose.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	3. Chapter 3

_My dear Georgiana,_

_There is not much to tell about the last week. I hope the same is true of your week, excepting perhaps a new piece of music from the formidable Mr. Pritchard._

_Mr. Bingley and his sisters all send their best to you. One, in fact, is watching over me at present, eager to ensure that I have someone to mend my pen if it should break. I am sure you can guess who the solicitous young lady is._

_After my arrival last week, there was an assembly held in the little town of Meryton. You can imagine that I attended with some reluctance, but as Mr. Bingley is my host and he was eager to go, I obliged him. There was not much to be seen there, except the overly eager new acquaintances of Mr. Bingley's. I did meet one young lady, however, whose company I think you might enjoy._

_Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the second in a family of five daughters. Her father has a small estate neighboring Netherfield, entailed away from the female line. Her older sister is the only other that merits mentioning. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst have taken a liking to the eldest Miss Bennet. She is, however, quite reserved. The younger three Bennet sisters are, in my opinion, too young and too silly to be out. Miss Elizabeth, however, is possessed of a sharp mind and quick wit. You and she would get along well._

_Yesterday, Miss Bingley invited Miss Jane Bennet to dine with her and Mrs. Hurst while we were dining with the officers. It seems Mrs. Bennet sent her eldest daughter on horseback. She rode in the rain and was wet through by the time she reached Netherfield. She has taken ill and the Bingleys would not do but to have her stay. Miss Bingley also invited Miss Elizabeth to stay when she came to nurse her sister. _

_That was an odd enough circumstance in itself. It seemed that Miss Elizabeth's father had needed the carriage – again – on the day following Miss Bennet's falling ill; however her sister was not to be deterred. Rather, she chose to walk the three miles from Longbourn to Netherfield, in mud ankle-deep. Miss Bingley observed, after Miss Elizabeth had been shown to her sister's sick room, that she was not fit to be seen, and was quite all astonishment at what she perceived as a spectacle made upon her sister's behalf. She immediately demanded my assurances that I should not like to see you do the same. Of course, I acquiesced, but I could not help teasing her a little by commenting that Miss Elizabeth's eyes had been brightened by her exertion._

My brother goes on for another quarter-page, in his smooth handwriting, about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He has never mentioned any of his new female acquaintances to me in his writing. I had assumed this was because he had _made_ no new acquaintances – he is not an easy person to speak with, and when he is with Mr. Bingley, his sister Caroline – who has quite made up her mind to marry Fitzwilliam – tends to circle round my brother like a vulture when there are other young unmarried females in the room. I used to think her kind, before I realized the motive behind her attention. Now I do not know what to think and try to avoid her as much as possible. Most of the time it is easy, since she is dressed all in beads, feathers, and swooshing silk, and can be seen and heard a mile away. Mrs. Reynolds, our housekeeper at Pemberley, calls her a peacock when she thinks no one is listening.

I ponder this Miss Bennet and wonder what she looks like. I assume she is at least tolerable, since there is no mention of her looks anywhere in the letter.

I have gotten another letter today, from my cousin Anne. She is only about five feet tall, prefers and mostly wears saffron-tinted yellows but does not look well in them, has hair so dark it is almost black, skin almost the color of milk, and eyes that are small and gray. I was afraid of her as a child and have always thought her looks putrid. However, she is as warm-hearted as a person who has been raised to think chiefly of herself can be. She writes brief but constant letters to me, and when I visit Rosings she does her utmost to sit with me, which can be difficult at times, as she is always being shown to her rooms to rest.

This letter is no different than most which I receive from her. The lovely thing about them is that she never bothers with opening pleasantries, and she writes just the same as she speaks – bluntly.

_Dear Georgiana,_

_It has been at least three weeks since your last letter; I had expected one from you sooner. You know you are the only person with whom I ever correspond. I am not allowed out my other cousins cannot be spared the time. _

_Mother is well and sends her best wishes. She will assist me in selecting a new maid this week. Nicole has gotten too old. I did like her, inasmuch as I ever liked any servant, so I wonder what she will do after she is finished here._

Anne's kindness is not perfect – she has been through more abigails in two years than I have bonnets, dismissing all of them either because of age or attitude. I do think her more sincere than curious about Nicole's future employment, however. She may be just as demanding and blunt, but she is more gentle and generous than her mother. I do not mean to say that Lady Catherine is not charitable, rather, that her charity has a certain, diminutive limit.

Anne is right, on one point – I believe I am the only person to whom she writes. I try to make my replies cheerful and interesting, but I am sure I fail miserably most times.

Sighing, I put down her letter. Each time she writes she speaks of the same things – first her mother, then herself, and then, if she is permitted to write so long, of other goings-on in the world with which she is acquainted. It is a very rare occasion indeed when I receive a letter from her that does _not_ bore me to tears. However, it is a nice challenge to come up with things to write about. I have the same difficulty thinking of things to speak of in company.

I leave the letters on my writing table and wander to the music room. Sitting down at the keys, I am determined not to play, even though my fingers dance across them involuntarily. I wonder on the young lady mentioned in my brother's letter – Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Hertfordshire. Given that my brother clearly likes her, I am predisposed to approving of her. Second of five daughters, living in an estate entailed away from such children . . . she would not be so very self-important or imposing, as Miss Bingley is. I wonder if she has any fortune to speak of, or whether she has any noble family. I should like very little more than to have a sister to love – a friend my own gender and relative age.

Ensuing letters from Netherfield are quite full of Miss Bennet. Fitzwilliam talks about the day on which the Misses Bennet leave Netherfield and how quiet the evenings become. He talks of meeting her at other homes in the neighborhood, and that he watches her interact with young Lucases and older Philipses, and how much he enjoys talking with her, when he does speak. And in one letter, I am struck by his saying, quite bluntly, "She is so expressive, and so full of life, with such striking eyes." He gives no indication, however, that his sentiments are returned. When he speaks of their conversations, it occurs to me that they debate more than they discuss, so I wonder whether there is any tenderness of feeling for him on her side.

He does, apparently, pay her more attention than he has ever paid any woman, excepting perhaps Miss Bingley, but that can only be because she asks for such attention. In his last letter he mentions that Mr. Bingley is not as satisfied with Netherfield as he had hoped to be, and that they will return to London as soon as matters there are settled.

He arrives sooner than expected and within a few days of his return, we fall into that same, comfortable routine which we have both come to rely upon. I adore my brother and cherish every moment that can be spent with him. It does not really matter that neither of us are terribly inclined to speak.

My dreams of Mr. Wickham are becoming less frequent, but they still trouble me. I do not sleep well and am afraid that Mrs. Annesley notices my fatigue. The dreams are generally the same – my mind flashing back to moments when we were alone together. Things feel so real that I wake up confused, and then feel my anger at him renewed.

One morning, after I have slept very, very little, I try to plead illness with Mrs. Annesley.

"You are not ill," she says gently. "Miss Darcy, I know that you are not sleeping well. Is there not something that I can do, to help you? Will you not tell me what is troubling you?"

I remember the day she invited me to speak to her, and said she hoped that I felt that I could trust her. There is not anything to tell her that my brother does not already know, so I take in a breath.

"If I were to tell you something in utter confidence," I begin in a low voice, "would you keep it to yourself?"

"I will keep any secret you tell me, as long as it is not to your detriment."

I sigh. Taking Mrs. Annesley's hand, I lead her to the settee and sit myself upon it. She sits next to me. "Let me first assure you that there is nothing that I am about to disclose to you about which my brother does not know every particular," I say. Tears begin to well in my eyes; Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand. I take a deep breath and continue. "When my brother was a younger man – a boy, really – he had a good friend named George Wickham. He was the son of our father's steward, and our father was very fond of him. He supported him at school after his father's death – he died so very young, you see. My father had intended him for the church, and had left provisions in his will for the living at Kympton to fall to him." I pause and let a smile come over my face.

"Your father must have been a generous man," says Mrs. Annesley in my silence. "I had wondered where your brother got his example."

I nod. "My father was an excellent man. I wish I could have known him better. He had such faith in Mr. Wickham. My father, you see, lost both of his parents at an early age, as Mr. Wickham did. I suppose that is why he was so fond of him." My smile falters and I heave another sigh. "But his faith was misplaced. Mr. Wickham learned to enjoy gambling and whiskey, and other things a young lady is not supposed to know of, more than his studies. His relationship with my brother crumbled. Mr. Wickham asked him for money, and he asked him to lie.

"Fitzwilliam, of course, would have none of it and tried to encourage Mr. Wickham to be an honorable man. He did not succeed. Of all of this, of course, I was perfectly unaware." I pause here, letting out a breath and looking around the room a little.

Breathing deeply again to steel myself for Mrs. Annesley's reaction, I continue, determined not to stop until I am finished. "When I first met Mr. George Wickham at Ramsgate I was surprised – I recalled a young man who paid almost no attention to me as a child. I had always thought him handsome, and if I am at all honest with myself, I still do. I was quite surprised indeed that he even approached me. I did not recall at that time, as he smiled charmingly at me, that he left Pemberley the same morning my father was discovered to have passed away. I did not know at that time, that upon leaving Derbyshire he left debts, knowing full well that my brother would discharge them. I did not recall that he did not write my brother at all, and though his relationship with my brother was quite thinly worn, Fitzwilliam was distressed by this. All I could see was that he was paying attention to me. It was not many days later that he told me that I was beautiful, and that I played the pianoforte more brilliantly than ever he had heard. A few days more and he was falling in love with me, until a fortnight after he first encountered me – quite unexpectedly, mind you – he declared himself and made the suggestion that, since he and Fitzwilliam were estranged, if we married and then sought consent, he could not but give it. He would see that his sister was happy, and that they could renew their friendship.

"All the time he knew what he was doing – he knew what he wanted and it was not me. I trusted Mrs. Younge, and she deceived me. But I ought to have known that none of it was true – nobody falls in love in two weeks' time, except in romance novels."

I pause for a long time, and examine my fingers. "I was thoughtless, and I hurt my brother," I finish finally.

Mrs. Annesley turns to take my hand. "What happened to stop you?" she asks.

"He came to Brighton. Fitzwilliam came to Brighton."

"And did he confront Mr. Wickham?" she asks, her brow contracting.

"I told him what Mr. Wickham said to me," I say, my eyes flooding with tears at the memory of my brother's expression. "I asked him for his blessing. He asked me if I loved Mr. Wickham."

"And what did you say?"

"I said that I had very strong feelings for him which I believed constituted love. He simply shook his head, kissed me, and sent me to my room. He wrote to Mr. Wickham; I do not know what he said. I expected some kind of response – a letter, a visit, anything. There was none. I have not seen him again."

"And do you still have those feelings for Mr. Wickham?"

I look away. "They are waning." I sigh and shake my head, thinking on it. "My brother, generously, never told me that I was not in love, nor did he ever attempt to direct my feelings in any other manner. He simply explained some things to me . . . the things that I mentioned earlier, and reminded me of the consequence of my fortune." I sniffle a little and take the handkerchief from my sleeve to pat at my eyes. "I wish the whole thing had never happened."

Mrs. Annesley takes my hand and squeezes it. "Miss Darcy, I think it is probably true that your brother has suffered because of this, but it may not be so much because of your actions that it is so. You are young; Mr. Wickham is not. His actions were calculating; yours were not. Consider that your brother and Mr. Wickham were friends as children. Do you not think that perhaps part of what your brother is experiencing is the pain of a betrayed friend?"

I smile sadly, truly never having considered this part of the matter. "I had not thought that, no."

"Your brother adores you, my dear. He almost lost you, and I think he may be blaming himself for what he allowed to happen. He may feel that he left you unprotected. Do not take too much upon yourself."

I smile and thank her, and though I do not know whether I believe them or not, I try to remember her words.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	4. Chapter 4

_My dear Georgiana,_

_I hope that you are well. I have arrived safely this morning in Kent at Rosings Park. Our aunt sends you her best wishes; Anne snarled at me. I assumed she meant it as a welcome._

_The next handful of weeks, I expect, shall be rather dull. There is not much to do at Rosings Park, as you recall – there is no one to play or sing, as you do, and it is only Fitzwilliam and I visiting. At least, however, I shall not be forced into society as I was in Hertfordshire._

My brother is not a social man; he is shy, like his sister. He does not look forward to social invitations in general, especially when he is acquainted with only one or two guests, but he also tends to dread them when he is acquainted with everyone in the room. He seems, to most, to be rather taciturn; uninterested in any manner of conversation and considering himself quite above all of them – which in my opinion he is. Truly, all my brother lacks to be considered as good as a prince is a title, which he most definitely does _not_ want.

I remember a time when my brother told me what he _did_ want – before Papa died and before my governess was discharged. He used to be quite open with me, and there was one particular conversation I recall with some clarity. We were sitting in the servant's dining room on a cold and wet day in early March, eating cake. I do not remember where the cake came from or why it was baked, but I recall that it was a secret and I was not to tell my governess under any circumstances. It is likely that Fitzwilliam was behind the scheme.

As we sat quietly eating and whispering, he asked me, "Georgiana, what do you dream about?"

"At night?" I think is what I asked, probably giggling the whole time.

"At night, and during the day. What do you wish for?"

I started running through the list of things I wanted – mostly hair ribbons and dolls – and when I was through, I stuffed another bite of cake into my mouth and asked Fitzwilliam what he dreamed about.

He paused before he answered. "Sometimes I dream about Mama."

It was the first time he had ever mentioned her to me, and I got quiet and wide-eyed, and whispered, "What did she look like?"

He swallowed and put down his cake. "She had very dark hair," he quietly said, looking away. "And she was tall."

"Was she very pretty?"

"She was beautiful," he whispered, smiling at me. "When I was a very little boy, Mama and Papa gave a ball at Pemberley. I was not allowed to go downstairs, but she came up just before it was time for me to go to sleep. When she walked into my bedroom I thought an angel had descended from heaven."

"Sometimes I wish I could see her," I said, putting down my own cake. "Did she not sit for a portrait?"

He looked away suddenly, with what was, even to the eyes of an eight year-old, obviously pain. "No," he replied. "She did not."

I took his curt reply to mean that he was not to be questioned about it further. My stomach then began to protest the richness of the cake and its delightful icing; I sat back and put my hand across my midriff with a sigh. After a brief moment, Fitzwilliam looked back at me and smiled a little.

"How about a bit of milk?"

I am thinking back on that day now, when so much has changed, while sitting on my chaise in my rooms in London after preparing for bed. I like the city a great deal, but I prefer Derbyshire and Pemberley, and I know that when my brother marries we shall spend almost all of our time there. Unless, of course, the lady prefers the city.

I rise and go to the window to look out into the starless night. My thoughts turn more toward my brother, who has been in Rosings these two weeks. He does not discuss his personal matters with me, but I think on them every once in a while, even though I ought not to. Given his conservative nature and his dedication to his duty, I know he will marry and I know, unless he is particularly struck as I thought he might have been with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he will marry the type of young lady who he is _supposed_ to marry, rather than the particular lady who he might _wish_ to marry.

Putrid Anne and Caroline the Peacock are out of the question – he has assured me of that on more than one occasion. But I do wonder who he _will_ marry; I hope to be able to so much as tolerate my future sister-in-law, whoever that might be, but dearly wish that I could come to _like_ her, or even love her, as my own sister. And perhaps there is a way that I can encourage him in his choice.

I turn to the writing desk and ink my pen.

_My dear brother,_

_I hope you are well and enjoying yourself at Rosings. Please convey my love to my dearest cousin the colonel, if you would, and please tell him that I should like very much to see him if he should be able to visit us together._

_Now, I must come to the purpose of my letter. I have a concern, my dearest brother, that I sincerely hope you will take to heart._

_It concerns you, Fitzwilliam. You have said that I should not be thinking about marriage at such an age, but I know you must be, and I confess I have been thinking on yours. I know you will not marry our cousin Anne – I know she has never liked you, and you have never liked her. You have also said repeatedly that you had no interest in Caroline Bingley – for which I could never thank you enough. I do not know what other ladies may or may not have caught your fancy – with the exception of the apparently formidable Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire, who you will likely never see again – but I do not want you to be unhappy in your marriage._

_During my life, I have been witness to few marriages, but those handful have been marriages of prudence – marriages in which families benefit, financially or socially, but where the principal parties are not matched well. I give you the earl and his wife, for example, who I am sure have never said a kind word to each other in the unnaturally long span of their lives together. I would not be entirely surprised to know if our aunt does not spend a moment in her husband's company except at meals and social gatherings._

_I know that it is not for me to worry about your life; that you are quite capable of handling your own private, personal affairs, but Fitzwilliam, I have always loved and admired you and this is not the life that I would want for you. And so I beg you, for your own sake, to marry a woman who you truly do admire, and one who admires you in return. I want you to be happy with yourself and with your wife, and I know that you are capable of looking beyond the surface to the person behind the silk and feathers. Our family does not want for anything except another loving member – do not look for what you do not need in your wife._

_Now, I am tired and I am sure I have quite overstepped my boundaries, so I shall go to bed. I shall expect to see you in about five days at the house in Portnam Square. Please travel safely._

_Your loving sister,_

_Georgiana._

* * *

The following Friday when Fitzwilliam arrives, he is very distant. He takes his tea alone in his study, and stays there for several hours.

At supper he will not speak with me beyond a few curt sentences. Afterward, we sit in the music room and he is still as silent as stone. When I ask him what is wrong, he gives me a peculiar look.

"I received your letter, before I left Rosings."

My heart immediately plummets to my stomach. I straighten my spine. "You did?"

"Yes," he says, looking away. Then, he looks back, and says quickly, "Georgiana, I know you are still very young, but I do wonder what gets into your head sometimes."

This comment takes me a little off-guard. The letter that I wrote to him, I felt, was perhaps not thought out _very_ well, but it was sincerely meant, and Fitzwilliam has always encouraged me to speak with him about what does, in fact, get into my head. I am saved from having to reply, however, as Fitzwilliam goes into a rant.

"As it happens," he begins as he stands, looking out the window and folding his hands behind him, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a particular friend of Mr. Collins' new wife – you do know who Mr. Collins is, Georgiana?"

I hoist an eyebrow at his back and wonder where this line of questioning is headed. "Yes," I say, tentatively, wondering what the only woman who, to my knowledge, has ever caught my brother's fancy has to do with his irritability.

"She is visiting Mrs. Collins at Hunsford, and on a few occasions, the Collinses, and their guests, came to dinner, while Fitzwilliam and I were at Rosings. I spoke with her several times."

Still without a hint as to what the problem is, and what I have to do with it, I reply, "And how is Miss Bennet?"

He stuns me into silence by replying, "I have made an offer of marriage to Miss Bennet, and have been turned down quite soundly."

It was clear to me that from the first time he ever saw her, he liked her, but this is quite unexpected. Now _I _am wondering what has gotten into _his _head. And what got into _her_ head to make her refuse him?

"_Your _encouragement in this whole affair was really quite unnecessary, you know," he continues, turning around. "Your letter to me was received the day before this cursed event took place. I cannot say that if I had not received it, I would not have made the offer, but it certainly did play a part, Georgiana."

It takes me a moment to figure it out, but I think I am offended by this comment. "I played a part in your proposal?" I ask, bringing my hand to my chest. "What part?"

"Your letter," he snaps at me. "The one you wrote to me, which I received not three days ago. Surely you remember writing it? You encouraged me to propose to Miss Bennet."

This is odd, indeed. "Fitzwilliam, I did not know that Miss Bennet was even in the same county as you. I assumed that after you left Netherfield, you would never see her again. I do recall writing the letter, but I did not specifically request that you marry her."

"But you knew that I admired Miss Bennet, and you encouraged me to, and I quote, 'marry a woman who I admire.' You went on for a page about how you did not want to see me unhappy in my marriage, and you know that I must marry _someone _."

"But you never gave me any indication that she liked you in return," I say, my dander up. "You said that she consistently sparred with you. Why would I assume that she liked you if she always quarreled with you?"

My brother looks at me sideways. It is true I never argue with him, but for Heaven's sake. I had nothing to _do_ with this.

"Did you assume that she liked you?" I ask him. "Did you assume that she would accept your proposal, because of your consequence in the world?" He says nothing, so I assume that he did, which angers me. I rise and stomp my foot. "Why would you do such a thing?"

It is clear that he is embarrassed, and he turns his face away. "I do not want to discuss this right now," he says.

"You began the conversation, Fitzwilliam," I snap at him. "I wonder, do you truly realize how taciturn you seem to strangers? Do you not realize that no one you know ever offers a contrary opinion to yours because you intimidate them? Fitzwilliam, you told me that Miss Bennet refused your offer to _dance_ with her – why on Earth would she accept a marriage proposal?"

"Georgiana-"

His face has softened a little, but I have not. "What I asked of you," I say, in an even tone, "was that you marry where affection is mutual. Meaning, of course, Fitzwilliam, that she liked you as well. And in any case, no woman of any good sense would ever accept a man whose main form of communication is silent stares."

When his eyes widen I know that I have gone too far. Rather than apologize, however, I only look at him while my heart slows to its normal rate.

"Georgiana . . ."

I wait for him to continue in that dark voice, but he does not. I blink, finally. It pains me to know how clearly I have hurt my brother, but there is nothing that I have said that is untrue, and I can have nothing more now to say. "Good night, Fitzwilliam."

I manage to make it to the sanctity of my rooms before I collapse on the bed and burst into tears. I refuse Michelle's services for the evening and wrestle myself out of my gown, yanking my brush through my unruly hair.

Mr. Wickham makes no appearance during what little sleep I have – my angry brother takes his place. I do not emerge from my room the next day and Fitzwilliam does not come to inquire after my health. For many days, we avoid each other entirely. I throw myself into my lessons instead.

Mrs. Annesley has in the past encouraged me to venture into the library when I am looking for something to do. Saturday afternoon is quiet and rainy; I take her advice and head there, hopeful that I will not encounter my brother.

The library is an imposing thing; all high walls and dark oak. The first thing that I notice upon entering the library is the smell of leather which permeates the air. There must be a thousand books here, arranged perfectly and dusted neatly. The room is handsome, but authoritative and stern – a bit like its chief occupant. I peek inside to make sure no one is there before I enter into it. Quietly I run my hand down the volumes upon the shelf closest to me and pick out the one on which my fingers stop. It falls open and there is a loose page inside.

The paper is folded and yellowed and the ink is thick; it has bled through. Curious, I replace the book it was resting in and open the note.

_Dear Father,_

_Today is my birthday and you spent the whole day with me._

_I enjoyed the picnic with you and Mama and I enjoyed riding with you in the park._

_I know you are very busy, so today was very special._

_I shall always remember it._

_Yours,_

_Fitzwilliam._

Tears blur my vision. I have intruded on something very private and personal and while I am not sorry to have come upon it, I am sorry for the offense of reading it. I reach up for the book and my hand rests on my brother's.

"Oh!" I exclaim, startled. "I did not see you."

"May I have that note, please?" he asks, turning up his palm. His voice is emotionless and his face is stone. I do not bother to look into his eyes; I know he is angry at me.

"I am sorry," I say, my voice choked. My face turns red as I re-fold the note, place it in his hand, and turn to leave the library. I hear my name as I reach the door and stop.

My brother approaches me. "Where did you find this?"

I cannot bear to look at him. I bite my lip to try to stop my tears and look away. It is a moment before I can answer him; my throat is constricted and I want to run and hide. Why must I always be displeasing him? "In a book on the shelf."

He pauses and I know he is about to give me a speech about young ladies and what they should and should not be doing. To my surprise, he asks gently, "Can you show me which book, Georgiana?"

I still cannot look at him, so I turn away and move to the shelf upon which I found the book and remove it. I hand it to him, still looking down.

The binding of the book cracks as it falls open. Fitzwilliam draws a sharp breath. "A volume of Shakespeare," he whispers. "Father read this to me countless times before he sent me to bed." He leafs through the worn pages; I finally look up. Softness has descended into his features and there is awe in his eyes. He turns back to the note in his hand. "I wrote this in the evening on my ninth birthday. I did not know he kept it."

"I am sorry for intruding on your privacy," I say quickly. "I did not mean-"

"Georgiana," he replies, laying his hand against my arm, "please, do not apologize. There is very little that Father left behind; I'm quite pleased to have this." He kisses my cheek and departs the library, leaving me quite confused indeed.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	5. Chapter 5

The next weeks are wet and quiet in London. My brother and I speak little to each other, and the air between us is strained. At long last, one evening he startles me by entering the music room and laying a hand upon my shoulder while I am in the middle of a Beethoven piece. I stop and look up, curious. He meets my eye, and for the first time in months, he is without the mask.

"You were right," he says quietly. "I did presume that she would accept me. I assumed, because of our different circumstances, that she would want – that she would be _obliged_, even, to accept me. I went to the parsonage that evening certain of my success."

"Will you tell me what happened?" I ask, my voice small.

"It is quite a story, my dear girl," he replies. "I have been mulling it over these many weeks. I feel . . . drained." He lets out a breath.

"If you would rather not-"

"No, no," he assures me, sitting down upon the bench. After a pause, he offers, "I would, perhaps, prefer to abridge the story for you. I am afraid that I have violated your privacy, and you ought to know of the circumstances."

"Did you tell her of my letter?" I ask, rather wishing I had burnt the cursed thing after writing it.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I was obliged to tell her about Ramsgate."

I am quiet for a long moment. "Do you trust her with this secret?" I ask, not certain whether I am angry or not.

Fitzwilliam settles me by taking my hand. "I know you have no way to know it," he says, "but Miss Elizabeth Bennet is most scrupulous; she will not make it public."

"Why did you tell her?"

My brother then tells me of Mr. Wickham's enrollment in the militia, and his stay in Hertfordshire. He tells me of his chance meeting with him, in the streets of Meryton. He tells the not astonishing tale of a young and charming gentleman with exquisite manners who captivated the whole of the county.

"Making his true character known to Hertfordshire would have only succeeded in my being even more disliked," he says with a wry kind of smile. "But he took a particular liking to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and when I tried – albeit half-heartedly – to put her on her guard, she would not hear it. He had told her that our father had willed the living at Kympton to Wickham and that I had denied him it upon Father's passing."

"But it was willed conditionally only," I protest.

He smiles again. "I know that, Georgiana, and Wickham knows that, but all of Hertfordshire would have made the issue my word against his. You of all people know how I hate to be questioned."

"Fitzwilliam, were you really so terrible? Did no one see you truly?"

"They _all_ saw me truly, Georgiana, and that was the trouble. I did not force the issue of Wickham's character because I thought it beneath me to lay my private actions open to them. I paid almost none of them attention, excepting Miss Bennet, and I did not encourage Bingley in his acquaintances either."

I have never heard my brother utter an admission of guilt so readily before, and am a little stunned, but not displeased. It is comforting to know that sometimes the great Fitzwilliam Darcy makes mistakes. "How did this come to light?" I ask gently.

He draws breath slowly, staring at the keys instead of looking at me, and a sadness creeps into his features. He speaks deliberately. "I went to the parsonage that evening knowing that Miss Bennet was quite alone. I thought of a number of approaches, and then, deciding that a direct one was best-"

"You always do," I say, laying my hand on his knee.

He smiles a little and takes it. "Yes – I do. I declared my feelings for Miss Bennet – she was surprised, as I had expected – and then, after foolishly letting her know the difficulties of such a connection, I asked if she would not become my wife." He then looks at me with a heartbroken expression. "She would not. I have been over it so many times in my head, Georgiana, that I could quote her reasons for refusing me – my arrogance, my conceit, my selfish disdain for the feelings of others . . . and then she accused me of having ruined Mr. Wickham . . . among other things."

"What other things?" I ask, curious. I would not wish him to hide anything from me.

"Nothing that signifies, dear girl." He pats my hand. "I wrote her a letter . . . a very long letter. In it I detailed my dealings with Wickham. I delivered it to her in the grove at Rosings the next morning. I do not expect to ever see her again."

Smiling, I squeeze his fingers. "I am sorry that your heart was broken."

He is quiet for a moment, and then turns to face me more squarely. "I . . . I know I am not perfect, but I truly never knew . . ." He looks away.

I take his dimpled chin between my thumb and forefinger, as he has wont to do to me at times. "Your heart will mend, Fitzwilliam," I say quietly, "and you can amend your behavior. Our closer acquaintances know the truth of your character; they know of your charity . . . that you are simply shy, like me. You can show it to others beyond your own circle."

He smiles. "Georgiana," he says, and then kisses my cheek. He pulls away and sighs. "I am exhausted. Take your brother to bed."

I walk with him up to his rooms, and then decide to retire myself. An odd feeling grips me as Michelle brushes out my hair, yawning all the while. I feel almost giddy; as if something unexpected and wonderful is about to happen. For not only have I this moment reconciled the one and only disagreement which I have ever had with Fitzwilliam, I have realized that I have not thought or dreamt of Mr. Wickham since my brother's return from Rosings some three weeks ago. He has not crossed my mind in a lazy, melancholy moment; he has not crept into my dreams to unsettle me; he has not walked off the pages of a book I ought to be concentrating on. He is slowly melting from my memory, as ice off the meadow in spring, the lessons left behind a nutrient to help me grow and blossom in the splendor of the season.

* * *

"Being at Pemberley, with guests," says Mrs. Annesley in the carriage, "will be excellent practice as hostess for you. Especially if there happen to be any visitors. Your age will excuse you from any _faux pas_ that you might make, and with the Bingleys – one in particular, mind you – you cannot make any mistake too grievous."

It is early August. We are on the last leg of our journey from London to Pemberley. We are in the first carriage, and Miss Bingley and the Hursts are behind us in a second with our servants in a third. Mr. Bingley rides beside us on his horse, and my brother rode ahead of us after receiving a message from Mr. Albertson.

"I do hope you are not referring to Mr. Bingley," I say, looking sideways at her. Mrs. Annesley likes to tease; I do not always appreciate it.

"Oh, yes," she replies, a most serious look upon her face. "He is quite smitten."

"He is not smitten with me," I assert. "If he is he shall be sorely disappointed." I lift an eyebrow and turn to look out the window again. We drive but a few feet more and then stop. As we alight from the carriage, my brother is there to hand me down. He greets me reservedly, as he usually does, but he smiles and I tell him how pleased I am to be at Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds is there, as well, and I introduce her to Mrs. Annesley, who I think she will like very much. A maid offers to guide Mrs. Annesley through the house and she and Michelle make themselves busy directing footmen with our trunks, soon disappearing. As the Bingleys and Hursts descend from their carriage, taking their time, my brother says nothing out of the ordinary, but in his eyes I can see a certain pleasure. I think he has got a secret – perhaps a surprise for me.

He takes my arm and we walk inside. The Bingleys and Hursts disperse to rest and direct their servants; Fitzwilliam steers me toward the main rooms of the house.

"I am sure you know that I have a surprise for you," he says, his eyes a twinkle.

"Yes," I say, impatiently. "What is it?"

We turn into the music room – my favorite in this house, as well – and he gestures into one corner. I am confused for a moment, until I realize that the pianoforte that used to stand there is gone, and a new one, ornately carved, painted, and polished, stands in its place. "Oh!" I gasp, covering my mouth and smiling, "Fitzwilliam, it is beautiful!" I run my fingers across it and sit down upon the bench, declaring that I cannot wait to play it. I begin the first few notes of a scale but discover that it is not tuned and wrinkle my nose.

He smiles fully and his cheeks flush. "I am glad that you like it. There will be someone here to tune it this afternoon, and you may play me something after supper this evening."

"It is too much," I declare, but would not have him send it away for anything. "Thank you. For what reason, may I ask, did you go to such trouble?"

"Nothing is trouble for my little sister," he replies playfully, which causes me to suspect that there is something more to surprise me with. "It was purchased to thank you for your honesty and generosity. Despite all that we Darcys have, Georgiana, those are two things we receive rarely."

I smile sheepishly and pull my hands away from the keys. "If I am either honest or generous it is because of you, sir."

Dipping his head solemnly in acknowledgement, he folds his hands and sets them on the top of the instrument. He smiles slowly, and then lets his eyes dance at me again. Now I am certain that there is something more. "I have another surprise for you, which you might like better than your new instrument."

"I cannot imagine what it is," I say. "As it is, I shall drive you mad and play this all day long." I gaze over it, and up at him again. "Thank you, again."

He bends down and kisses my cheek. "It was nothing, if it gives you pleasure," he says. "Now, you must go and change out of your traveling clothes. There is someone I would like you to meet at last."

I look at him, fiercely curious. "Who is it?"

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet is staying, with her aunt and uncle, in Lambton. I asked if I might introduce you to her while she is there."

My stomach begins to flutter in nervousness, but I take hold of his arm. "Oh, yes!" I declare, all nerves. "Oh – whatever shall I wear?"

Fitzwilliam laughs. "Anything will be fine. I have got the curricle coming around. Mr. Bingley will follow us on horseback once his sisters are settled. I shall meet you downstairs." He kisses my head and I turn toward my room, calling for Michelle.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet is only a little shorter than I am. She is raven-haired with fleshy cheeks and a pleasing figure. She is dressed modestly, which suits her honest features. She smiles at me, and the fine eyes about which my brother raved brighten the sitting room. Oh, I quite like her. She is lovely.

My brother lets Miss Bennet know that Mr. Bingley is also coming to call upon her. She smiles, and for the briefest of moments, my dear brother's face is graced with such an expression of tenderness that I smile. It is clear, to me at least, how much he really likes her. For this reason I cannot think what to say, and am sure I seem quite silly when she tries to engage me in conversation and I make only brief replies to her comments.

Her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, are kindly-looking people and I like that same honesty in their faces which I observe in Miss Bennet's. Mr. Bingley makes his appearance in quick succession to our own, and comes into the room all smiles and eager to talk and please. I find it amusing that Mr. Bingley, a man who misplaces his pens upon the surfaces of writing tables, recalls the precise date of the ball he gave at Netherfield. I wonder if something particular occurred then, as it is evident that there is something more he wants to say about it. He keeps his enquiries general, however, and though Miss Bennet is kind and clearly pleased to see him, there is no special attention paid to him, and neither has anything truly noteworthy to say.

My brother is perfectly composed and relaxed in her presence, on the surface, at least. We stay with them for about a half an hour and then, just before we leave, my brother persuades me to invite them to Pemberley for dinner, which I do quite nervously. Mrs. Gardiner accepts for the party, and smiles encouragingly at me. We settle on the day after next, and then must take our leave. Fitzwilliam and I are both close to silent but smile stupidly on the return to the house.

To my vexation and delight, Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet call upon us the following morning while her uncle accepts an invitation issued by my brother to go trout fishing at Pemberley. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst's greeting is cold, and they say nothing. I wonder if something happened between them in Hertfordshire and rather suspect the sisters of being less than gracious neighbors.

Mrs. Gardiner is as open and friendly as she was yesterday. She talks easily with Mrs. Annesley, and Miss Bennet listens respectfully to their conversation, joining in occasionally. I, of course, say next to nothing, as I am afraid of saying something silly.

I am afraid Miss Bennet is not very comfortable in the presence of the Bingley sisters, for she seems quite anxious. After remaining silent since her arrival, Miss Bingley screws up courtesy enough to inquire after the health of the Bennet family, and receives a reply formulated with as much consideration as she showed in waiting above a quarter of an hour to ask.

After this exchange, finally I notice Mrs. Annesley looking at me as though something is expected of me, and I am reminded that I am the hostess and must ring for some refreshment. Some lovely fruits are brought, and we all gather round the table, and not long afterwards, Fitzwilliam comes to join us.

I observe Miss Bennet when he walks into the room. She seems more relaxed and at ease, which pleases me, and I think her smiles must please my brother. It does not escape my notice that he seems particularly anxious for she and I to speak, and I do exert myself more to do so.

Miss Bingley, unfortunately, also notices that my brother is attempting to forward conversation between Miss Bennet and myself, and from the expression upon her face, she is not pleased by it. She proves it then, by asking whether the regiment of militia, which I knew Mr. Wickham had joined, had not removed from Meryton.

"They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

Knowing the nature of Miss Bennet's acquaintance with one in particular of those officers, I would feel more for my new friend if I did not more clearly recall what connection _I_ had with the same officer. Miss Bingley has never heard a word of the incident, and would not have posed the question if she knew of it, but the comment was made out of anger and jealousy, and with the intention of injuring my brother's opinion of our visitor. It has the unintended side effect of silencing me for the remainder of the visit.

Miss Bennet answers quietly and disinterestedly, and they do not stay much longer. When they have gone, Miss Bingley begins abusing her abominably. I can see she wants me to join her, but I cannot. My first introduction to Miss Bennet through my brother's glowing descriptions in his letters was enough to ensure my good opinion. Now that I have met her for myself I have no objection whatever, and so I ignore Miss Bingley, and quietly go along with Mrs. Annesley to my French lesson.

* * *

In the afternoon we sit down again to tea. Fitzwilliam does not join us, but Mr. Bingley does. We have pleasant conversation; his sisters are uncharacteristically quiet. Soon Mrs. Reynolds pops in and tells me that my brother would like to see me. I cannot think what for, so curiously I go in the direction of her pointed finger. My brother is waiting in the hallway.

"I should like a turn in the garden with you," he says, his hand extended. I smile and take it.

We reach the garden. It is so beautiful at this time of year. Fitzwilliam tucks my hand into his arm and smiles at me. "You and I did not get the chance to talk last night," he says. "What were your impressions of Miss Bennet?"

Honestly, brother. Don't beat around the bush. A direct approach is always best, after all. "She is lovely," I say, to quickly assure him of my regard. "I very much like her."

"I am glad to hear it," he says. Then he stops and turns to me, squeezing my hand. "I think that it is time we had a talk."

"What about?" I ask, my stomach aflutter.

"You know that I must marry," he says, his voice low. "I know that you do not know her well . . . but do you suppose that you might like to have her for your sister?"

Though I am rather inclined to call his valet and send him back to the inn with our mother's wedding ring, I consider the question. I do like Miss Bennet, very much – my first impressions of her are everything good and amiable, and adding to that my brother's own good opinion of the lady, the fact that the dogs do not growl at her as they do at Miss Bingley, and Mrs. Reynolds' rapture over her the night before, I do not think I have greatly erred. As to her fortune and connections, I am perfectly indifferent and always have been to anyone's. But if she is my sister, then she is my brother's wife. This means many things and I sit on a bench to ponder them. Fitzwilliam looks nervous and a little surprised.

"I should very much like to give over housekeeping to your wife, Fitzwilliam," I say, which is not the answer he was expecting at all. He stares uncomprehendingly at me for a moment but then realizes where my thoughts have gone, and sits next to me. "I should have to share you," I say quietly. "Rather a lot, I conjecture."

"But with a woman worthy as I believe Miss Bennet is," he whispers to me, "would you share willingly?"

I look up at him. "I see so little of you as it is," I complain.

When I was younger there was a family living near us in Portnam Square. The young lady was my age and was the ward of her brother, who was fifteen years her senior. Dear Agatha loved her brother and they walked often in the park and met with Fitzwilliam and me. When her brother married she was left behind in London without a visit from her brother, and without journeying to their country estate, for an entire year. Oh, I could not bear that, not even for someone I like as well as I like Miss Bennet.

"My marriage would change that," he reminds me softly, and he knows what I am thinking. "I would never send you away, dear girl."

I feel silly for even thinking such a thing, and I smile sheepishly at him. "I should dearly love to have a sister," I tell him, "and I do like Miss Bennet very much."

"And so," he continues, uneasily, "if I were to court Miss Bennet – properly – and if I could show her that I am not the vicious beast she must have thought me at times, perhaps she would consent to marry me. You would approve?"

I smile at him. It is rather endearing to hear him speak in terms so uncertain. "Yes!" I declare. "Unless of course, you think Miss Bingley would like to fill the office."

He raises his eyebrow at me. "If a lifetime of torture was what I wanted, I would choose Anne first. At least it would be quiet torture," he retorts, and we continue our walk. He is smiling all the way, and I know his head is full of Miss Bennet. "We will have a new family at Pemberley," he declares just before we reach the house again. He kisses my forehead and leads me inside.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	6. Chapter 6

The next day I rise and practice early in anticipation of spending the remainder of the day getting ready for, and enjoying, Miss Bennet and the Gardiners' visit. My brother leaves the house before I am finished and when he returns he has distressing news – Miss Bennet has been called home unexpectedly and will not be joining us today. I am disappointed, but my brother – who had the day before been talking of marriage and new families – is, quite clearly, both angry and brokenhearted. This combination of emotions I have seen before, regarding the same woman, and I do not know what to do. He is close to silent for the remainder of the day, and in the evening I want to suggest that perhaps he should join Mr. Bingley when he returns to Hertfordshire but am too afraid to speak to him.

I try to outlast Mr. Bingley's sisters, but as I do not wait until ten o'clock to rise, I cannot. Fitzwilliam approaches me and recommends that I retire with a kiss on my head, which I know is not a suggestion, but a command. I sigh and bid him good night, walking slowly to my room. The day has turned out quite differently than I had expected and hoped and I wish that I knew why.

As I lay in my bed I hear his footsteps. They are distinctive – strong, sharp, and quick. He is pacing. I hear him walk up and down the hallway at least four times before his steps slow down, and before long he is shuffling his feet. When I hear his footsteps stop at the end of the hallway opposite his chamber door, I rise and put on my robe, stepping out to the hall.

He is sitting slumped on the cold marble floor, his arms resting on his legs, bent at the knee. There is – not surprisingly – a bottle of wine resting between his feet. I sit next to him.

"Go to bed, Georgiana."

"Tell me what is troubling you."

"No."

"I am not a child, you know, Fitzwilliam. You can confide in me. I may not be able to do anything for you, but at least I can listen and help bear your burden."

He looks at me with eyes swollen and narrow from anger. "Go to bed, Georgiana."

"No," I say emphatically, quite perturbed with him. "I beg you, Fitzwilliam, just talk to me. It will do more good than drowning your troubles in that bottle of wine."

His head thumps against the wall; I wince for him but he does not seem to feel it. "Oh . . . my dear sister." He shakes his head now, back and forth, in a rather exaggerated manner. "You would be too distressed by what is going through my head."

Since I know he is drunk, I know he is not paying attention to what he is saying. I am not _very_ clever, but at least I have this figured out. "And what is going through your head?"

"The fact that I am in love with a woman who will never have me."

"You are speaking of Miss Bennet?"

"I am."

"And why will she never have you?"

"Because her youngest sister has run away with damned Wickham and she knows that I could have prevented it."

I sit stunned for a moment. "What has Wickham done?"

Fitzwilliam flops his head in my direction. "He ran away with Miss Lydia Bennet." He reaches for his wine. "She has nothing – no money, no connections, few friends. Nothing that will tempt Wickham to marry her. She is lost to her family and I could have prevented it." He lifts the bottle by its neck to his lips and takes an untidy swig.

"He has ruined that poor girl," I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand. "Miss Lydia Bennet could so easily have been me."

"No," drawls Fitzwilliam, "for Wickham would have married you. He will not marry Miss Lydia Bennet. She has nothing to offer him."

"Truly they have nothing?" I ask, beginning to worry for my new friend. How distressed must she now be! "There is no way he would marry her?"

"If she had what you have, perhaps," he replies with another swig of his wine, "but she has not, and so he won't."

We fall quiet for a moment. I know not what my brother is thinking, but my head is swimming with the words that he used to describe Miss Lydia Bennet's situation.

_She is lost to her family. _

_He will not marry her._

I could have been lost to mine – despite what my brother might say, had I married Wickham I would eventually have figured out that he did not love me, and only wanted my fortune. I am enough ashamed of what I almost did; had I actually eloped, I would never have been able to face my brother again.

I eye the bottle and am tempted to drink of it myself. Instead I shake my head. "She will now never see her parents and four sisters again. Oh . . . poor Miss Bennet." My words are but a whisper, but my brother hears them.

Fitzwilliam, astonishingly, belches and then sighs. "I do hope, dear sister, that the poor Miss Bennet to whom you are referring is Miss _Elizabeth_ Bennet, because while Wickham is a complete rake and I would like to throttle him for what he has done, Miss _Lydia_ is not exactly . . . bright."

This declaration disquiets me and I sit back against the wall. Is this what my brother thinks of me – that because I fell for Wickham's charms and deceitful ways, that I am similarly obtuse?

"Which makes it all the more shameful!" he declares, starting his rant again. "Taking advantage of a person whose intelligence is less than his own. He knows she does not realize he will not marry her." He sighs and drinks again, letting the wine dribble down his chin. "The man could charm the scales off a bloody snake."

It is an interesting thing, hearing my brother talk in clichés. And curses. Belching, with wine dribbling down his chin. I look him over, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I see him not as my older brother, deserving of respect and deference; a young man born not just to wealth but to tremendous responsibility, forced upon him before he was ready. Before me instead I see a sulking little boy who has not got his way, and I want to giggle before I recall what the cursing and wine is all about.

"Fitzwilliam, all is not lost. You do not know that Miss Bennet would never have you."

"No," he dismisses me, "she will not. I have had a hand in ruining her family; what woman would not hate such a man?"

"You do not deserve hate," I say sharply. "Wickham does. And how on Earth could you have prevented this? You did not know he would do this."

"But if I had not felt it beneath me to explain the rift between Mr. Wickham and myself, none of this would have happened. None of it, Georgiana, none at all. For God's sake, I might even be married already."

I laugh a little. "Oh . . . my, brother, what a dramatic streak you have got," I tease. He ignores me. "What would you have done – would you have exposed your entire past, and mine, to all of Meryton? No one should have to do such a thing. This is not your fault. And let me be the first to assure you, being a young lady myself, and knowing what it is to be deceived by the man, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is at this moment likely blaming herself for what has happened. She also knew what he was, Fitzwilliam . . ." I sigh and look earnestly into my brother's tortured eyes. "And neither of you are to blame. It is Mr. Wickham and Lydia Bennet's doing."

"She did blame herself," he says quietly, and shakes his head. "But she is not to blame. I am." I start again to protest, but sobriety has suddenly overtaken Fitzwilliam and he stands. "And so I will have to do something about it." He picks up his wine bottle and begins down the hall, striding confidently as though nary a drop of alcohol had touched his lips.

I rise to follow after him. I have to walk quickly to keep up with his long, purposeful stride. "What are you going to do?"

He slows to a stop. "I must find him. I have no doubt that Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner are intelligent and resourceful, but they will not know where to look. I am the only one who can find him, and find him I must." He puts his free hand on my shoulder. "Georgiana, I will have to go to London early tomorrow. Mr. Bingley will not want to stay long and will encourage his sisters to return to Grosvenor Street in a few days. I will write to you every day and will return as soon as I possibly can."

I kiss his cheek before I turn back to my chamber. "You must do one more thing."

"And what may I do for you, dear sister?"

"You must hope."

He pauses a moment, looking me in the eyes. Purpose has returned to his, but that is not what I want to see. "I will if I find reason to."

It is all I can ask for. I smile and enjoy an embrace from my brother before turning in.

* * *

In the morning I am left with the unenviable task of making my brother's excuses and playing hostess to the Bingleys and Hursts. Mrs. Annesley tells me not to fret over it. "It is good practice," she says. "You will one day find yourself hostess to less gracious visitors." Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst are well able to entertain themselves; one out of courtesy for me, the other out of habit. It is the Bingley sisters that have me flustered, since I am certain that at some point I shall be questioned about my brother's reasons for returning to London so hastily. When the time comes, however, I find happily that a general explanation of business satisfies and bores them into changing the subject.

The next day, the Bingleys and Hursts depart Pemberley, no doubt at the urging of Miss Bingley. My brother's first letter arrives the day after. He says only that he has arrived, that he has been rather occupied with his task and that he is hopeful that Wickham can be located. I wish that I could write to Miss Bennet and ask how she is faring; to reassure her that my brother's regard is steadfast, but I did not have the opportunity to ask her before she left Derbyshire.

The weeks pass slowly, and I receive a letter at least every Wednesday from Fitzwilliam. He does not mention his quest at all and in his words there is a tone of distance. I can almost see him as he writes them to me, with the mask in full force.

Mrs. Annesley has begun to tutor me again in subjects new and old, which helps to pass the time. She seems to think my French is improving and she wants to teach me German. I hope she allows me to concentrate on one language at a time. I have barely mastered English, after all.

Five weeks after my brother suddenly departed Pemberley, I receive a letter to lift my heart.

_Dear Georgiana,_

_It will be but a few days before I am home again. I am sure I am as anxious to be there as you are to have me return._

_I have not mentioned the purpose of my coming to London to you since I arrived. This has been largely due to the general unpleasantness of the situation and the fact that I did not wish to trouble you. However, I think that you should know that Mr. George Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet were married this morning. The bride at least was pleased with this event, however much I believe Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner mourn somewhat for their niece. I do not know whether they will travel into Hertfordshire before he is obliged to join to his regiment in Newcastle, but it does not signify. However ungrateful they both are, my task has been accomplished and perhaps my mind can now be at ease._

That would, indeed, be welcome. Fitzwilliam continues the letter by telling me all about Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's children, and how kind that couple was to him during his search. When I am finished with the letter I tuck it away and prepare the house to receive him in the next day or so.

When he arrives, he is somber and quiet. He does not talk much and he spends several days almost exclusively with Mr. Albertson. We spend every morning at least together and many afternoons walking in the park; I play and sing for him every evening, but weeks pass before we have meaningful conversation.

"Georgiana," he says, hesitantly, as we have our breakfast some three weeks after his return from London, "may I ask . . . does it trouble you?" His shoulders are tense and there is gravity in his look; he fidgets with his butter knife.

"Does what trouble me?"

"Wickham's marriage. You . . . you at one time had some very strong feelings for him."

I look into my tea cup. "I do think on it sometimes," I confess, "but beyond wondering how Miss Elizabeth Bennet is faring, it does not trouble me."

"It does not?" he asks. My assurances seem to have lifted some weight from his shoulders.

"No," I say quietly. I take a breath to steel myself and then continue. "If I still believed Mr. Wickham loved me, or that I loved Mr. Wickham, I am sure it would bother me. I . . . I am still angry at him." I look my brother in the eyes and can see what Mrs. Annesley sees . . . the pain of a betrayed friend. "For what he did to you as well as for what he did to me. But I shall ever be grateful to you, Fitzwilliam, for making me see what he truly is."

I want, desperately, for my brother to embrace me, but I know he will not.

Instead he draws a mighty breath and informs me, "I have taken every precaution to ensure that Mr. Wickham will not importune our family any longer. I may not say it very often, Georgiana, but I do adore you and I would be heartbroken if I ever lost you."

Tears fill my eyes as I exhale. "I love you, my dear brother." Proud of both of us, and knowing he will want to collect himself, I rise, kiss his head, and leave the breakfast room.

* * *

The following afternoon when we gather for tea, Fitzwilliam is quiet. He is not in a foul mood, so I amuse myself by watching a pair of rabbits play just beyond the window. Mrs. Reynolds enters the room and quietly addresses my brother. She leaves quickly, and then he approaches me.

"Georgiana," he says, while taking my hand gently in his, "I have a confession to make."

I set down my tea cup. This statement was not lightly made. I prepare myself for some shocking news. "What is it?" I ask.

"When you were a little girl, you asked if our mother had not sat for a portrait. I said that she had not. It was not true."

This, I am shocked at. Not so much that there should be a portrait of my mother, but that my brother should have lied about it, and that he should remember my asking so long ago. "It was not?"

"No," he says solemnly, shaking his head. "Though I did not know it at the time, I have known it for a number of years. I am sorry, Georgiana."

"Then there is a portrait of my mother? May I not see it?"

Fitzwilliam smirks a little. "Yes," he says, and tucks my hand into his arm. We leave the sitting room, bound for the gallery. He explains himself as we walk. "There are two. She sat for one when she was sixteen, and another shortly after her marriage to our father. When she died, he requested that the first, which hung in Matlock, be sent to him. He was very, very angry . . . he was bent on destroying them both." In the gallery we stop before two portraits draped in black. "No one knows who put them away, but Mrs. Reynolds found them after his death and asked if I would not like them to be hung. I did not even look at them – I was too upset. I told her to put them away . . . but I remembered them a few days ago."

"Why were you both so very angry with her?" I ask. This does not seem rational at all.

"_I_ was not angry with her," he tells me, but his voice is sharp with the emotion. "Our father was. _His_ anger I cannot vouch for, nor can I say when it ebbed. He sent me to school but a day after she was laid to rest and I did not see him for two full years."

"You were angry at _him_." I am starting to understand some things – dare I think one of these could be my brother?

He is quiet, staring at the shrouded portraits. Oh, and there it is – that strong, controlled façade. I hate it when this happens.

I clutch his arm. "Please," I beg him. "Please tell me what you are thinking." He turns his head, and for a moment, he will not look at me. "Fitzwilliam, _please_."

He turns back to me, and the mask is gone. Sorrow fills his eyes. "Yes, I was very angry with him. It was not her fault that she died . . . it is not my fault . . ."

He turns away again. After a moment, he turns back, and without looking at me, removes the black covering from our mother's portraits.

I am stunned. _Absolutely_ stunned – I cannot think for several moments. I understand now. I understand why my father always spoke highly of Fitzwilliam, only to decline to visit him at school. I understand why he wrote such long letters, with every intention of assisting Fitzwilliam in whatever he asked for, but relegated himself to London during the summers. Oh, I understand – for here before me, immortalized on canvas, is my mother, and there is not one feature of hers that she did not give to my brother in birth. Fitzwilliam's beauty is merely a copy of hers. My father could not bear to look at Fitzwilliam – at his own son.

"And it was not only this," he says, gesturing severely at the portraits, trying desperately to control his voice. "Every mannerism . . . every tilt of my head or gesture of my hand reminded him of her. Now I ask you, Georgiana, what young boy would not be angry at a father who refused to look upon him, as though he were hideous?"

His voice becomes choked at the last; I silently stroke his arm and wish I knew what to say. Faster than I realize, connections are being made in my head. My father could not stand to look at his own son, but his steward's was a fine replacement for the affection that he missed, for he could look at a Wickham and not see his wife – a wife whose death he blamed on himself, for she died in childbirth, which was a circumstance he brought upon her.

"Why did he not hate me?" I ask. "If she died giving _me_ life, then why did he not despise me?"

He takes a breath and turns, smiling a little at me. "Nobody can hate such a tiny little thing as a baby," he says softly. "Especially a little baby girl with golden curls, such as you had. He fell in love with you from the moment he laid eyes on you."

My eyes fill with tears as I look again upon my mother. "How can you bear all of this, Fitzwilliam?" I ask him. "He fell in love with me, as you put it, at the same time he resolved on never looking at you, his son and heir. It is not fair." My voice breaks and I look away for a moment. "It is not fair."

He is quiet for a moment before he answers me. "Many things in life are unfair, my dear," he replies. "I was angry with Father my whole life for this reason, and I never truly got to know him. Now he is gone and I have not the chance."

"You may regret the anger, but it is not unfounded. I never understood, until now."

"There is more that I regret," he continues softly. "I regret ever having hidden these away. Not for my own sake, for I recall Mother's face with clarity in my mind, but for yours, Georgiana. You might have known your mother all this time, and because of me, you have not." There is that heaviness in his voice which is a clear indication of the self-reproach he is unfortunately good at.

"You take too much upon yourself," I say quickly. "Truly, my dear brother. You are not to be blamed for every little thing that goes ever slightly amiss in my life. I know you think you could have protected me from Wickham, but you were misled about Mrs. Younge's character, and I should have known better than to arrange to run away with him. And these portraits . . ." I pause, turning to them. "I am just grateful to have them now."

Fitzwilliam embraces me. "My dear sister," he whispers into my hair. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"You would be thirty thousand pounds richer with a less heavy heart," I reply in all seriousness.

My brother pulls away and solemnly takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Georgiana, that is not true. You mean so much to me . . . I do not know how to tell you how much."

There is a rather unexpected rap on the wall at the far end of the gallery. We both look up, but my brother is not surprised at it.

"Yes?" he addresses the footman, patiently.

"The carriage is ready, sir, and your horse is 'round front."

"Thank you, Davis." He nods and walks away.

"Carriage?" I demand impatiently. "Where are you going?"

He hesitates before he answers. "I am going to join Bingley at Netherfield. I have some rather important personal business with him." He pauses again and swallows. "It concerns a young lady he is exceedingly fond of."

My heart plummets into my stomach and my face turns white. Before I think what is about to come out of my mouth, my lips move. "Oh, for Heaven's sake – not _me_, I hope?"

He smiles and lays his hand against my cheek. "Georgiana, I am sorry. Mr. Bingley _is_ fond of you, but he is in love with the lady of whom I speak. There are some things about her that I said to him, which I ought _not _to have, and some things I did not say, which I _ought _to have. I must set things right. It is quite likely that he will be engaged within the month – within a _week_, if I know Bingley."

I let out a breath. "Oh . . . I am pleased for Mr. Bingley," I say, but really more relieved for myself.

He shakes his head and takes my hands in his. "I presumed too much when I matched Bingley with you," he says. "It was only in my own head, I know, but my desire to see you settled safely within my reach interfered with my good judgment. For that I must apologize, and do what I am able for my friend."

My face shines with a smile; I am so _very_ proud of him. "How long must you be gone?"

"I do not know," he replies. "I should think not longer than a week, but that should depend upon Bingley. Then I will be on to London."

"Perhaps Mrs. Annesley and I could come to London in a few days, in case you decide you rather enjoy London too much to come home?" I ask, hoping he will agree. I hate to be away from him now.

He smiles. "Yes, I think that shall do nicely. You can make the arrangements to travel with your companion, and write to let Mrs. Edstrom know to expect the pair of you."

I smile and kiss his cheek gleefully, until a thought occurs to me. "Fitzwilliam," I say slowly, "do you expect to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet while you are in Hertfordshire?"

His face turns somber. "Yes, I do," he replies quietly. "The lady that I spoke of, who Bingley is in love with, is Miss Elizabeth's elder sister, Miss Jane Bennet."

"Will you send her my best wishes, and invite her to write to me, if she will?"

My brother lays his hand in mine and smiles a little. "If Miss Elizabeth and I get the chance to speak, yes, I will." He swallows and continues, in that pessimistic way he has, by saying, "Keep in mind, however, that I do not expect that Miss Elizabeth and I will have the opportunity to speak privately, or that she will speak to me at all." I just shake my head and kiss his cheek. He promised, so he will do it.

(c) 2008 J. H. Thompson


	7. Chapter 7

A Note:

Someone asked in a comment in the beginning which piece of music Georgiana was playing in the first chapter. When I wrote it, I imagined she was playing Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_, which at the time would have been a relatively recent work. For those who don't know this piece, you can listen to it for free at last dot fm - search for Beethoven, and there's a list of his most popular work.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Jacqui

* * *

After a whirlwind of preparation with Mrs. Annesley and Michelle, we arrive in London on Wednesday and expect my brother on the following morning. He arrives in relatively good spirits and though he has some business to conduct with his solicitor and a handful of calls to return, he and I are able to spend much of the day together.

That afternoon, on a search for a boring letter from Putrid Anne which I have misplaced, I take myself into the front drawing room. I am not paying much attention to anything but surfaces and the placement of the items upon them, so I am startled to find a young man standing next to the fireplace. I jump and cover my mouth, and then begin to apologize profusely.

The young gentleman holds up a hand to reassure me. "I beg your pardon, Madam," he says. "I am sorry to startle you. I am waiting for Mr. Darcy."

"I am here," comes my brother's voice from the entrance to the room, and with a happy look on his face he strides swiftly over to the young man and holds out his hand.

The man takes it, smiling as well. "It is good to see you, Darcy."

"And you, Henry," replies my brother, shaking his hand firmly. "You look well."

"I am well; thank you."

My brother then looks to me with a smile. "Miss Georgiana Darcy, this is Mr. Henry Beresford. Henry, this is my sister, Miss Darcy."

I used to think that my brother was the most beautiful man that I had ever seen, but oh . . . how wrong I was. Mr. Henry Beresford has the most clear green eyes I have ever seen, and as they focus on me, he smiles and they turn joyful. I am so stunned that I have quite forgot on what purpose I came into the sitting room. As I go through the motions of my curtsey, I almost cannot bear to take my eyes off of his.

"I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy," he says. "I have heard much about you over the years."

My brother goes on to explain that Mr. Beresford is an old friend of his, and while he and my brother have written very faithfully they have not had a chance to meet in several years.

Fitzwilliam then invites Mr. Beresford into the library and we part. He is gone by the time my lessons with Mrs. Annesley are all complete and I am ready to play and sing for my brother. I am disappointed, but take the opportunity to question my brother about his friend with the bright green eyes.

"Tell me more about Mr. Beresford. Where is he from?" I demand, sitting on the bench.

Fitzwilliam smirks and sips tea. "He is from Northhamptonshire, where his family has lived for several generations."

"And have they an estate?" I ask. "Has he any brothers or sisters?"

"They have a vast estate," he replies, "possibly as large as Pemberley. And he has two brothers."

"And how long have you been acquainted with him, my dear brother?"

Fitzwilliam chuckles a little. "I met him several years ago in London, where his father introduced us. His father and ours were great friends."

"They were?"

"Yes. Is it such a shocking thing to know that our father had friends?"

I smile at his remark. "No. It is only that I do not remember any of them." I fall quiet for a while, wanting to ask more but too embarrassed to do so. Fitzwilliam watches me as I look idly around the room.

"The elder Mr. Beresford is still living. It is very likely that you shall meet him one day . . . perhaps he will have a tale or two to tell about our father."

I look at him shyly. "I would like that." Then I sniffle, for no reason, and look around the room some more. I catch my brother shaking his head.

"What is the matter, Fitzwilliam?" I ask in all sincerity.

"Georgiana . . ." He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. "Please understand, dear girl . . . your upbringing has been something I would not have let another do for anything, and I am not going to let you go so easily. I will not give _any_ man my consent – I would not even have given it to _Bingley_ – until you are eighteen."

I want to laugh at him but dare not to. "What has effected such a statement from you, sir?"

He smirks. "Let me say only that in the library, Mr. Beresford was quite as curious about my sister as she now is about him."

My cheeks turn bright red. "He is not married, then?"

Fitzwilliam sighs. "No, he is not." He then adds quickly, "But I beg you to be careful, Georgiana . . . I do not want to see you hurt again."

My heart fills and I smile at him as my eyes glisten. "With your guidance, Fitzwilliam, I shall be well. I promise." He smiles at me, and out of the corner of my eye, I finally see the item for which I have been searching. I jump up, kiss Fitzwilliam's cheek, and twirl out of the room, waving Putrid Anne's boring letter.

* * *

In the late afternoon on that Saturday, we receive a most unexpected caller – my esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

"Georgiana," she says, before the poor butler has the chance to announce her, "you will leave your brother and I to speak privately."

I gaze at her. Her entire face is red and puffy and there is a sharp gleam in her eye which I do not like – she is _furious_. I am too stunned to move and would prefer to stay and hear what she has to accuse my brother of.

"Georgiana, you are not hard of hearing. Go find something useful to do; we have important business to discuss."

Finally my brother rises and manages to stammer, "Lady Catherine, it is a pleasure to see you here."

"Mr. Darcy, I have had _quite _enough cheek for one day," warns my aunt, and then she turns back to me. "Georgiana, I will not repeat myself."

After a confused pause, Fitzwilliam tilts his head to me. "Georgiana, perhaps you should go."

I purse my lips and glare at him and plan to quiz him later. With a significant look of displeasure at both of them, I rise to leave the room.

To my surprise, Mrs. Edstrom is standing there with a glass. She hands it to me, and I take it.

"Whatever is _this_ for?" I ask, wondering if the world has gone suddenly mad.

She says nothing, but takes the glass from my hand. She steps left of the drawing room door and places the rim of the glass against the wall and presses her ear to the bottom of it. Then she hands it back to me. Curious, I copy her and hear my aunt say, ". . . speak with your sister about her growing impertinence. I have read her letters to Anne . . ."

I smile at Mrs. Edstrom in thanks and turn back to the wall as she walks away, intently listening.

"What is the purpose of your visit, Madam?" He sounds impatient.

"What is the nature of your relationship to Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I demand a straightforward answer."

"I am acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and have been for about a year. Why do you . . . ask?"

"And have you made Miss Bennet an offer of marriage?"

My brother says nothing for a moment; I am nervous for him. "What has you asking these peculiar questions, Lady Catherine?"

"I will tell you," she snaps, and I can hear her cane tapping on the floor as she paces. I imagine her circling my brother as a vulture does his prey. "On Thursday evening Mr. Collins paid me a visit. He was very alarmed and knew that I would be, and when you know the reason for it, I hope you too shall be alarmed. Mr. Collins informed me that your friend – that Bingley fellow – is lately engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet's sister. He lamented, as he should, for your friend; I hope you know that his choice is not a wise one."

She pauses here, and I assume she is waiting for my brother to agree. He does not; she continues. "He then informed me of a particular report currently circulating in Hertfordshire which concerns you."

"And of what does the report consist, Madam?"

"It is said that you will soon be, if you are not already, engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Although I know this to be impossible, we must now formalize your engagement to my daughter. I will not have these rumors flying about and upsetting my Anne every time you smile at a young lady."

"I do not smile randomly at young ladies, Madam." Fitzwilliam's tone is dark; he is clearly upset.

"Nevertheless, these things cannot be allowed to get out of control, Darcy. I have already secured the young lady's assurances that the report is false, and there is no more reason to delay the engagement."

I wonder where the rumor came from as I wait for my brother's reply. He is quiet for an uncommonly long time. He coughs. "You have . . . _her_ assurances that she is not engaged to me?"

"That is what I said."

"And how came you by this information?"

"From the lady herself, of course," she replies, nettled.

"You visited Miss Bennet?"

"I did. She was impertinent and willful and I was too long in her company."

"What did she say?" Here my brother's voice is slightly raised in pitch; he is nervous.

My _brother_ is _nervous_.

"If you must have the narrative, I will give it to you," she snaps. "I arrived at Longbourn this morning and was greeted only by silence and open-mouthed stares." This of course is a clear indication that she was exceedingly rude. I am not surprised. "I applied to Miss Bennet to walk out with me, which she did reluctantly. I came directly to my point, as I always do, by demanding that she contradict the report which I received from Mr. Collins two days ago. She pretended not to know of it and then informed me that she may choose not to answer some of my questions, if she did not like it. She had to be consistently reminded of my superior consequence. She paid no mind to my position. It was outrageous! That girl is headstrong, conniving, and foolish, and Darcy, if you do not take care, she will ruin you!"

Fitzwilliam coughs. "Did you happen to mention your desire for Anne to marry me?" asks my brother, with that nervous pitch in his voice.

"I did. For my part I explained too much – she ought to have accepted my wishes and made the promise which I asked of her."

A pause. "Promise, Madam? What did you ask of her?"

My aunt snorts. "Of course I asked for her word that she would never enter into an engagement with you," she replies. "She would not give it, though if she did I doubt that I could trust it. She is perfectly obstinate. I do not want Georgiana in her company, Darcy, if you should choose to visit Mr. Bingley and his unfortunate new family after he is married."

"She would not promise?"

"No, she would not. You see how serious this situation is. Therefore, I must demand-"

"I thank you, Lady Catherine," says my brother hurriedly, "for bringing this to my attention. As it happens, I shall be in Hertfordshire this Tuesday morning. I shall do whatever is in my power to settle these matters while I am there."

There are footsteps heading toward the door, so I am forced to dash for the kitchen while Fitzwilliam shows Lady Catherine out. When I am certain she has gone, I search for him again. He is pacing in the drawing room.

"Fitzwilliam?"

He turns at my entrance and rushes toward me, taking my upper arms. His eyes are wild with nervousness and excitement. "She did not promise she would not marry me."

I try to feign ignorance. "Who did not promise?"

"Georgiana, I know you were listening," he admonishes with a silly kind of smirk. "I am speaking of Miss Bennet, of course!"

I blush and bite my lip. "You are not upset that I was listening?"

"No," he replies, "I am too anxious to be concerned about what you are doing."

I laugh at him. "Fitzwilliam, I told you!" I declare, laying my hand against his cheek. "I told you that you must hope, and now you see that there is _reason_ to hope."

He looks earnestly into my eyes, and his soften. "I thought I _did_ hope, Georgiana," he says quietly. "She would not give her promise to Lady Catherine never to marry me; if she had decided totally against me, she would have issued what Lady Catherine asked for."

"What are you going to do?" I ask, smiling.

"I will join Bingley again at Netherfield, as I had planned. I will leave on Monday and be in Longbourn by Tuesday morning. From there, I cannot say what I will do. It depends upon Miss Elizabeth."

I smile and happily kiss his cheek, leaving him to prepare for his journey and extracting a promise for a letter with any news as soon as it occurs.

* * *

On Friday, after much patient waiting on my part, I receive a letter from my dear brother, dated the previous Wednesday.

_My dear Georgiana:_

_At last, today I am able to write to you. I have every hope that this missive finds you quite well, studying, and entertaining Mr. Pritchard._

_I have visited Longbourn, and as I know you are anxious to read all I will write about the ladies living therein – and one in particular – I shall delay no longer in relating their conditions to you._

_Miss Mary Bennet, who looks much like her father, is a quiet young lady to be sure, though I think you might like her. I have observed that she shares your love of music – or at least your determination to play it. She is very studious, and reads a great deal, though I think she might benefit from some variation of topic._

_Miss Catherine Bennet is a pretty young girl, closer in age to yourself than Miss Mary. I think you would like her, as well. Her sisters call her Kitty. She is petite, blonde, and with a very interested mind, much improved, I think, by the marriage of her sister._

_And now, dear sister, you shall hear about the one Bennet about whom you must be the most curious –_

My heart races at the anticipation that I might hear good news relating to Miss Elizabeth; I jump up and smile.

_Miss Jane Bennet –_

Oh! That teasing man! He will be punished.

_– is, according to her mother, quite the prettiest of all her daughters – no mean feat, I assure you, for she has five of them. Bingley must agree with her; I must not. But I am sure you shall like Jane very much, and I have fixed it so that you and Mrs. Annesley may travel to Netherfield to meet her, some two weeks before the wedding, and stay through a month, and perhaps you might like it better to stay at Longbourn after the wedding. It is not a very large house, but I am assured that there would be room for you – Mrs. Bennet has a few guest rooms, which might be used by the Gardiners; however, if that be the case, Miss Bennet's room will no longer be in use, and Mrs. Annesley could stay there. You, of course, would stay in Miss Elizabeth's room. She will be traveling to London, and as I am going with her, there will be no need for the Bennets to accommodate me._

I pause. I re-read my brother's cryptic lines to be sure of what I have read. There is only one reason – one reason which supposes proper behavior – that my brother would travel with Miss Bennet to London, quite by themselves, and that would be that they were married.

Oh! Married!

I jump up again, smiling, and I read on:

_I am sorry, my dear girl, that you are not with me at such a time as this. I should very much like to share my joy with you. I could not help teasing you – Miss Elizabeth's tendencies to do so must be contagious. As you are likely the sole member of my family very much pleased by my choice, your support will be missed when I receive replies from my uncle and aunt._

"Miss Darcy," interrupts Mrs. Annesley, "what has your brother to say that has gotten you so excited?"

I spin around. "Oh! It is such wonderful news. My brother is getting married!"

She declares her joy at this information. "To whom shall he be wed? I hope not to his cousin," she teases, knowing the answer full well. "She must be a great lady to have secured his affection."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," I reply, impatiently reading through the rest of my letter. When I am done, I put it in my lap. "She is from Hertfordshire. She visited us in Derbyshire this August, when we were there with Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

"I remember Miss Bennet and her aunt and uncle," replies my good companion. "More particularly I recall the way Miss Bingley glared at her."

"Miss Bingley will not take this news well," I say, wondering whether I should laugh or be concerned. Her hopes were all in vain from the very start, after all . . . but nonetheless, I think she might be hurt.

"Everything happens for a reason, Miss Darcy," says Mrs. Annesley. "This might be an eye-opening experience for Miss Bingley. Perhaps she might learn that the charms she possesses, which she assumed would attract your brother, have no real merit."

I think it more likely that she will learn to be bitter, but keep my opinion to myself. "But my brother is a particular kind of man," I say cautiously. "Don't you agree? He is not like other men. I am sure I have not met any quite so generous or kind, or genuine and artless."

Mrs. Annesley laughs at me. "Georgiana, dear, he is your _brother_. Of _course_ you think so well of him. And I might remind you that you are not yet out, and the list of young men with whom you are acquainted can be counted out on one hand and half are your own relations."

I smile and turn pink – she is right, of course. "But you must at least agree that a full quarter of them are rakes," I counter.

She laughs again. "Yes, a full _quarter_." She shakes her head and gazes at me, and I can see a little affection in her eyes. "_One_ man, Georgiana. _One man_. Do not give him another thought; he is not worth it."

I smile at her. "No, he is not." I look back at my happy letter. "Married!" I shake it in the air. "Not to Putrid Anne. Not to Caroline the Peacock. To someone he loves." I sit and read it again, and sigh when I am done. Mrs. Annesley is laughing at me still.

(c) 2009 J. H. Thompson


	8. Chapter 8

Hello:

This is the final chapter in the story. Thanks so much for all of your kind reviews - I know I didn't get to thanking you for each of them last round, but I adore every one of you for taking the time to respond.

Enjoy the last chapter - I hope it doesn't leave anything wanting!

* * *

It is Friday. The morning is bright and cold and I rise to put on my new blue silk gown. My expectations for another letter from Fitzwilliam are high; it has been nearly two weeks since his last arrived.

There will be no letter today, however, for the gentleman himself is standing there as I walk into the breakfast room. And with _such_ a smile! He holds out his hands; I take them.

"Fitzwilliam?" I smile. He kisses my forehead, but does not speak for a moment. To encourage his affection, I rest my head on his shoulder.

I feel his firm stance soften; he holds me close. "I am so happy," he whispers. "Dear sister, I have not been this happy."

This admission brings tears to my eyes. He rubs my back and I pull away to look at him. His eyes are wet, but he is not embarrassed. "Everything is settled?" I ask, smiling as I squeeze his hands.

"Yes," he replies. "We are to be married alongside Bingley and Miss Bennet at the end of November. If you like it, you will come to Netherfield in a few weeks' time-"

"Fitzwilliam, I do not care about your plans for me," I reply. "I will do and be whatever or where ever you wish; you have only need to say. But I do want to hear all about it." I pull him toward the table and sit him down at his place. Then I fire off questions – What did you say? How did you ask? Where were you? How did you come so quickly to an understanding?

He laughs – something which my brother has not done in quite some time. "Dear girl, these are questions best asked of Miss Bennet herself. Why do you not write her?"

"Would she wish it of me?" I ask, a little astonished.

"Silly question," he replies. "When I left her she asked me to bring you this." He pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and hands it to me. I read what she has written in flowing hand:

_My dear Miss Darcy,_

_Today I send your brother home to you quite unwillingly. Though I know he goes to a lady he very much adores I cannot help but be a little jealous and hope for his safe and speedy return. Mr. Darcy assures me that you will come to Netherfield to stay for a fortnight before the wedding. I hope you will allow me to introduce you to my sisters Mary and Kitty, who are about your age, and I should like to spend much time with you myself. _

_Miss Darcy, I hope with all my heart that you approve of your brother's choice and that I shall meet every expectation you have in a sister. Please write to me, if you like, and I look forward to seeing you very soon at Longbourn._

_Very truly yours,_

_Elizabeth Bennet._

* * *

About a month later, after I have written to Miss Bennet and she back to me, and my brother and I have called upon her and her aunt and uncle in Gracechurch street while she was in London, and she repaid the visit, we are on our way to Longbourn. We traveled this morning first to Netherfield and stayed there only long enough to change horses and clothes. As we pull into the drive, I see Miss Bennet's home, and note the way that Fitzwilliam smiles and relaxes, as though what lies inside the stone walls is the key to all his happiness.

Longbourn House, I judge, is little more than half the size of Netherfield Park; however there is a kind-looking older gentleman standing out front, ready to greet us, who I assume is Mr. Bennet.

My brother hands me down and introduces me to Elizabeth's father. "I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy," he says to me. "Your brother speaks very highly, and very often, of you."

Amazingly I find something to say, when ordinarily I would be embarrassed into silence. "Your daughter speaks the same way of you, sir."

Mr. Bennet smirks and tosses a glance in the direction of the house. "You are very welcome, Miss Darcy." I nod quietly and smile as he turns to my brother to welcome him. We then go into the house, as it is rather cold outside. There, Miss Elizabeth Bennet greets me warmly and I am able to sit between my brother and his fiancée in the Bennet's drawing room.

"I hope your journey into Hertfordshire went well," she begins.

"It did," I confirm, without much else to say. "Thank you."

"When did you arrive at Netherfield?"

A little embarrassed by my eagerness to see Miss Bennet again, I hesitate to answer. Fitzwilliam encourages my response with a kind look. "Little more than an hour ago," I say, my cheeks a flush.

Miss Bennet smiles. "I hope your brother did not rush you, for I should have to punish him if he did. Really, Mr. Darcy, you ought to know by now never to rush a young lady."

I am a little struck dumb by her playful teasing, even though it is good-natured. As I look to my brother, however, I see no offense, just a look on his face that I have not seen before. I do not know what it is, but I am certain he is not displeased. Still I feel I must defend him.

"It was rather the reverse, Miss Bennet. Please do not scold him. It is I who did the rushing."

"It is true, Miss Bennet," replies my brother, who embarrasses me by continuing, "I rather suspect she had some encouragement from a visitor to her chamber at Netherfield."

Elizabeth smiles gleefully. "And how is Miss Bingley today?"

I cannot help but return her smile. "I thought she said she had a headache," I reply.

"I dare say she does," says Elizabeth quickly. "Mrs. Bennet is visiting Netherfield with Jane and Kitty."

I want to laugh but am not entirely certain whether it should be appropriate in the presence of Mrs. Bennet's husband. I sneak a glance at him. He is smirking, and from this, there is only one thing that I can conclude.

The Bennets are going to take some getting used to.

* * *

The next four weeks are a whirlwind. I cry at my brother's wedding and vastly enjoy my time with Kitty Bennet. The time spent with her is like none I have ever spent. I have never had the benefit of a friend my own age. When my brother and new sister arrive at Longbourn to collect me on their way to Pemberley from London, they are both glowing, refuse to stay long, and promise to invite Kitty to Pemberley in a few months. We promise to write faithfully when we part and Mr. Bennet kisses my hand affectionately.

When we reach Derbyshire, my brother announces that the Beresfords will be coming to visit us the next week, to meet the new Mrs. Darcy. It is quiet at Pemberley until that day, and then a mass of activity takes place to welcome the Beresfords.

Mr. and Mrs. Beresford have brought their sons Henry, George, and David. David is lately engaged to Miss Emily Appletoft, who has joined us as well.

I am more than pleased to see Mr. Henry Beresford again, and during the evening on which they arrive, he does not leave my side. There is not much to know about me, but Mr. Beresford talks about his family, which by my measure, is rather large – beyond those he has brought with him, he has a grandfather still living, and aunts, uncles, and cousins too numerous to recall. Since David, his second youngest brother, is to be married in a months' time, he muses that soon enough he will be able to add sister to the list.

"Elizabeth, of course, is my only sister," I say, "though she herself has four of them."

"Mrs. Darcy, you mean?" he asks, looking in her direction. "She is a lovely woman, and it is clear your brother is happy. You must be pleased with his choice."

"Very much," I say. "Though I am the only one of my family who has always been so."

Mr. Beresford laughs – a delightful sound, low and gentle and melodic. I smile and look down and know I am blushing like an idiot. "It is unfortunate that we cannot always choose our relatives," he says.

"Yes," I agree. "But Fitzwilliam has done very well, I think, in choosing my sister. I only hope I can do so well for him."

Mr. Beresford smiles at me but says nothing. Later in the evening he encourages conversation from me with his two brothers, who are very cheerful young men, and Miss Appletoft. I like her, as well, and find her relatively easy to converse with. Elizabeth smiles at me several times – an affectionate, proud smile that she has, no doubt, adopted from my brother. I see Fitzwilliam glance my way on a few occasions as well during the course of the evening, and also has his protective eye trained on his friend Mr. Beresford, who occasionally glances his way with an amused expression on his face.

I finally retire to my rooms to prepare for bed, but am too excited to sleep. I knock on Elizabeth's chamber door. She is not in bed yet, and invites me in.

"Did you enjoy yourself this evening, Georgiana?" she asks me while brushing her hair.

I giggle a little. "I think it is obvious that I did."

"Yes," she laughs. "And I think Mr. Henry Beresford did, as well. Tell me, did you like his brothers?"

"Oh, they were very kind," I say. "I had a very nice conversation with Miss Appletoft, as well." But I am not thinking about Miss Appletoft, or about her fiancé. My head is full of Mr. Henry Beresford. I sigh, flopping down on Elizabeth's chaise. "I will not be able to sleep tonight."

"The Beresfords will be here all week," she replied. "You will see Mr. Beresford tomorrow. Do not be too anxious."

"I could have talked with him all night long," I reply, not really listening to Elizabeth.

"I think the feeling is mutual, Georgiana." Elizabeth looks at me, her expression serious. "But do take care, my dear sister. I know what you are thinking – when I was your age I had the same thought about a young man or two."

"You must not say that, Elizabeth," I tell her, feeling chirpy. "You have only ever had eyes for my brother; admit it."

"I will not!" she declares with a laugh. "I hate to break your heart, but my feelings for your brother when I first met him were much different than they are now."

"Oh, do be serious, Lizzy," I say, admonishing her a little. "I know you have not always got on as well as you ought to have, but you must have liked him from the very beginning."

Elizabeth laughs again, to my astonishment. "Absolutely not! And why should we have got on from the start? There is no reason to always be agreeing with your brother, you know. What would vex him, then?"

Elizabeth's chin is turned up and she is grinning, and I suspect she has had more wine than she ought to have had. I smile back at her. "Do you mean to tell me you did not like him?"

"No, no, no," she says, waving her hand. "I disliked him. A lot. I even promised my father that I would never dance with him."

"But why ever?" I ask, folding my legs up into my chest and wrapping my arms around them. "I have never known a young lady to not be enamored of Fitzwilliam from the moment she laid eyes on him."

She smiles wider. "Well, he is very handsome, Georgiana."

"And very rich, as Miss Bingley would point out."

"Yes," she giggles. "But no, I did not like him. He slighted me, you know," my sister states, raising her eyebrow and shaking her hairbrush at me. "I am quite surprised you did not have this story from my mother when you stayed at Longbourn after our wedding." And she then begins to detail my brother's first foray into Hertfordshire society.

"But he is not like that," I tell her, as if she needs to know it. "It is only he is uncomfortable around strangers. And," I admit, almost holding my breath, "at that time he did tend to be a little proud."

"A little, Georgiana?" laughs Elizabeth, getting up to finish brushing her hair. I blush and bite my lip. I am so happy that he met her, and though I would wish to at this moment, I cannot even begin to express myself, so I remain silent. She sighs as she sits down at her dressing table, and continues her tale. "And then, you know, Mr. Wickham came into the neighborhood and filled my head with lies that I found all too easy to believe, for more reasons than one."

I become somber for a moment. "Lies roll easily off Mr. Wickham's tongue," I say slowly. And then I realize exactly what Elizabeth has just told me. "You believed his lies?"

"Yes." Then she turns around and looks me in the eye, her face so serious that I would think her suddenly sober if she were not flailing the hairbrush again. "He came into town dressed handsomely in a red coat and a charming smile and had all of Meryton swooning at his very presence. And when the subject of Mr. Darcy came up between us, he wasted no time in informing me – and later, everyone else – that he had been very ill-used by your brother; that he was denied a living willed him by your father." She turns around and pulls the brush slowly through her hair again. "And I believed every word he said – so much so that I laid the accusations at Fitzwilliam's door when we met in Kent."

I am a little shocked. If someone as intelligent and sensible as Elizabeth could be fooled by Wickham, then perhaps I am not quite so silly as I had thought. As if she can sense my thoughts, Elizabeth sets down her brush and moves to sit next to me. "He did the same thing to you that he did to me, with the same objective – revenge upon your brother. He saw in you a young girl in need of attention and affection and that is what he gave to you, with the intention of taking your fortune in return. Had you not been shy or modest he would have found something else in you to exploit." She focuses on braiding her hair for a moment, and when she has tied the ribbon around the end of her braid she turns back to me. "I was mortified to know the truth, but at least, dear Georgiana, I did not lose my heart to him."

"My heart is not lost," I assure her, and then smile as my thoughts turn toward Mr. Beresford again. "Not yet."

She smiles. "Do you know what the worst part was about his running away with Lydia?"

"You were unable to attend your sister's wedding?"

She laughs outright. "That was a blessing!" she says. "But no. The worst part was that my holiday was cut short and I was just starting to fall in love with your brother." She rises and kisses my forehead as I laugh back at her. "Now, go to bed. It is late and I am sure you will have pleasant dreams tonight."

I rise and kiss her cheek. "Thank you, Lizzy." She hugs me and wishes me good night, and I do the same. I shut her chamber door and pause in the hallway to sigh and smile to myself a little, and hear Fitzwilliam entering her chamber though the door to his own.

"Did Georgiana come to discuss Mr. Beresford with you?" I hear him ask his wife.

"Oh, yes," she says. "Her head is quite full of him right now."

"I heard you talking about me, my love," comes my brother's strong voice, "and about my old friend."

"Yes?" says Elizabeth. "And do you always eavesdrop on ladies' conversations?"

"Absolutely. How else would I know what was going on in my own house?"

"You are being silly."

There is a pause. "Madam," I hear from my amused brother, "you are tipsy."

"Yes," she rejoins, "and what do you plan to do about it, sir?"

I wait, but that is the last I hear from them. I slip away to dream about Mr. Beresford.

_The End._

(c) 2009 J. H. Thompson


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